


Notes of the Broken

by sennawritesthings



Category: The Winner's Trilogy - Marie Rutkoski
Genre: Abuse, Anxiety, Death, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Food, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Verbal Abuse, let's just put all the triggers on here to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-15 04:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17521898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sennawritesthings/pseuds/sennawritesthings
Summary: in which Kestrel, a piano player, comes from a broken and abusive home. She’s counting down the days to her freedom until she’s thrown out. She’s left shaken, and vows to never play the piano again. Arin is a singer fallen from grace when he’s involved in a scandal he had nothing to do with. He makes a vow to never sing again. when a strategic act from Kestrel brings them together, they find that sometimes music is all you need and learn of the secrets that destroyed Arin’s career.





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> she’s a little bit rough (ok, a lot a bit rough), but i tried. it’s been a while since i’ve written anything that wasn’t tweet character long. that being said, i hope you enjoy! 🤗💕
> 
> ps. tw: for abuse (physical/verbal), death, anxiety/depression (?), food/eating disorder (no one has an ed, but there are scenes dealing with food that could possibly trigger someone so please read with discretion.)

The house was always empty. Even with the maids that she knew came to clean the house, she never saw them. Her father always left early in the morning, and arrived late. Work was his only priority. It made sense, Trajan held many celebrity careers in his hands, and he was only one man. But Kestrel didn’t know if she was grateful she had such a large house for herself, or if the house was a reflection of her life.

 

Grateful, she thought as she passed the room that held her mother’s piano. Kestrel only ever approached it — played it — when her father wasn’t around. She stepped into the room, steadily making her way to the instrument as if it would run away from her. She was always surprised to find that it was still here. That her father kept it clean and tuned. It was all that was left of her mother in the house. Kestrel supposed that one day her father would get rid of it.The way he did the pictures and clothes Kestrel used to look at and play with when she was child and he’d caught her. She’d unconsciously made it a habit every morning, before school, to check up on it and then again when she arrived home.

 

Kestrel had never met her mother. She’d died giving birth to her. So the piano was the only connection to her mother. She’d taught herself to play with videos and books because her father wouldn’t pay for a teacher. Her fingers twitched with longing as they grazed the keys.

 

Later. When she was sure she’d be alone, when no maids would accidentally interrupt and possibly tell her father.

 

Kestrel left the room, quickly stopping in the kitchen to grab an apple from the fruit bowl before drifting out of the door to school.

 

She’d ignore the pit that seemed permanently lodged in her stomach for one day more.

 

***

 

“Hello,” Jess singsonged, waving her fingers in front of Kestrel’s face. “Earth to Kestrel, Earth to Kestrel. Where did you go, sweetest sister of mine?”

 

It was a running gag between them, Kestrel, Jess, and Jess’ brother, Ronan. Ronan was in love with Kestrel. He’d never bothered to hide it when they were growing up and even now, while he was away for college, he didn’t hide it. He’d text her, email her, even write letters sometimes. Ronan intended on marrying Kestrel. Jess was always thrilled with the idea - her best friend and sister in soul, officially her sister by law.

 

Kestrel never had the heart to tell her otherwise or tell Ronan he was only dreaming, though she was sure deep down he knew when she’d reject his advances.

 

“I’m sorry,” Kestrel said to Jess. She hadn’t meant to tune her out, but once Jess got going on dresses for their upcoming prom and who their dates were going to be, Kestrel couldn’t help but let her mind wander.

 

They were sitting beneath a tree, eating their lunch. The seniors and juniors never had lunch together, but Jess had purposely scheduled her independent study class at the same time as Kestrel’s lunch so she could sneak out and sit with her. Kestrel had only wished she could’ve done the same. Her gaze drifted over the crowd outside. It was nicer than it had been for the past few weeks. The sun was out and the ground was dry. They were taking advantage of the good weather.

 

“I don’t know if I’m going, Jess,” she said to her friend, truthfully. She bit into the hard slice of pizza the school had served for lunch. Her stomach roiled, but she hadn’t taken her own lunch.

 

Kestrel would’ve ate crumbs straight out of the garbage if it meant that she got to eat as much as she could before returning home.

 

Jess frowned, picking at the celery sticks she’d brought as snacks. “Why not?”

 

 _I don’t think my father will pay for the tickets, or a dress. I think he’d murder any boy or man who touches me._ But Kestrel said none of those things. Instead she said, “I don’t dance. And there’s no one I’d want to take for a date, anyway.”

 

There was always her friend Verex, the son of her father’s best friend. The only boy her father deemed acceptable if only because he was the heir to his father’s multibillion dollar industry. Jess didn’t know that, though and Kestrel wouldn’t tell her.

 

Jess rolled her eyes. “You can take Ronan. You know he wouldn’t say no if you asked.”

 

“We’re not supposed to bring outside dates.”

 

“Since when does the school care about that?” Jess shrugged, taking a bite of her celery. “They never actually check. Besides, it’s _Ronan_. The staff loves him _,_ they’d never turn him away.”

 

It was true. Ronan had gotten away with any and everything when he went to school with them, often getting Kestrel and Jess into — and out of — trouble with a simple smile. But that would mean giving him false hope. And in two months, Kestrel would be eighteen and move out. In three, she’d graduate and leave for college. Ronan would be a tether to the last place she’d want to look back on.

 

“I don’t know,” she sighed.

 

Jess set her bag of celery down, turning her body so that she faced Kestrel fully. “Alright, fess up. What’s going on?”

 

Kestrel blinked at her, taking a slow sip of her milk. “What do you mean?”

 

“You’re making excuses. Do you think I don’t know that?”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Kestrel. We’ve been best friends since we were five and six, and you pushed Maris off the slide because she pulled my hair to go down first. I know when something is wrong with my best friend.”

 

Kestrel held Jess’s gaze for a moment longer before turning her attention to the courtyard again. She lifted a shoulder. “I can’t pay for the tickets.”

 

“Your dad won’t buy them for you?”

 

“Maybe,” Kestrel said, the lie creating a knot in her throat.

 

Jess was quiet for a beat, thoughtful. “Well ask him. If he says no, I’ll buy them for you.”

 

“Jess, no.”

 

Jess waved a hand. “Jess, yes. I’m not going to prom without you. It’s our last year together, and then you’ll be off to college and I’ll be stuck here for another year.”

 

“I don’t have money for a dress either.”

 

Jess waved her hand again, rolling her eyes. “Then I’ll pay for that, too. Anyway, you need my help picking one out. Consider it an early birthday gift.”

 

At that, Kestrel snorted, poking Jess in her side. “No, you’re not spending you money on me.”

 

“I can,” Jess huffed, snaking at Kestrel’s hand. “And I w-“ she broke off, staring intently at Kestrel’s arm. Her sleeve had hitched up, showing off a yellow-green mark - the tell tale sign of a fading bruise.

 

Kestrel pulled her arm away, tugging at her sleeve.

 

“What was that?”

 

Kestrel shrugged. “I ran into the kitchen counter the other day.”

 

Jess’ eyes narrowed. “Kestrel.”

 

“It’s true! You know how clumsy I can be.”

 

“In all my life, I have ever known you to be clumsy, Kestrel. Where did you get that?”

 

Kestrel stood so quickly,her remaining lunch nearly toppled to the ground. If it had, she would’ve picked it up and finished eating. The three second rule existed for a reason. “I ran into the counter, Jess. Stop trying to find something that isn’t there. People can be clumsy - _I_ can be clumsy. It was an accident.”

 

Jess stood, too. She said nothing as she gathered her things. She said nothing as she made her way back into the school to return to her class. She’d nearly made it to the door before she turned back, marching up to Kestrel. “Fine. You ran into a counter. But Kestrel, if you can’t be honest with me, your best friend, your sister, then who can you be honest with? What’s more - why don’t you trust me at all?”

 

 _Because your parents worship the ground my father walks on. Because I don’t deserve you as a friend or a sister. Because you are everything good and pure and whole and I am nothing._ But Kestrel said none of those things. She didn’t get to say anything at all as Jess walked away.

 

It was better that way. In two months, Kestrel would be eighteen and she’d move out. In three months, Kestrel would graduate and leave for college. _Jess_ would be a tether to the last place she’d want to remember.

 

Start fresh. Away from her father. Away from the town he had under his thumb. Kestrel would turn her back on them all.

 

***

 

When Kestrel arrived home from school, the first thing she did was check on the piano, releasing a sigh of relief when she saw it still there. Then she dropped her things in her room and crept toward her father’s office.

 

Her father wasn’t there, of course. He’d never made it home before ten or later, but Kestrel made it a habit to check anyway. She slipped into the room, leaving the door open. The maids would be gone for the day, but she had to be cautious. They could always forget something.

 

It was quite bare for an office - two simple bookshelves that were filled with awards of her father’s clients who didn’t want them at their house. If they didn’t fit there, he’d simply get rid of them. A desk that was clean and held nothing substantial in the drawers except for a few papers and mostly office supplies. He kept everything in his office at Valoria Entertainment, his best friend’s company.

 

Mostly everything. Kestrel took the painting hanging behind the desk down to reveal a safe. She punched in the code - her mother and father’s wedding date. She reached into the safe for the stack of money her father kept there, drew a few bills from it and tucked them into her pocket.

 

She’d lied to Jess when she’d said she didn’t have money for prom tickets or a dress.

 

She had the money. Three-thousand dollars, to be exact, now three-thousand three hundred. It was money she stole from her father once a month and stored beneath her dresser. If he noticed, he never said anything about it. The money she took, saved, was all she had for when she moved out. She couldn’t afford to spend a cent of it on prom. On anything.

 

And there was something else in the safe Kestrel would come for. She removed a note sheet from the safe, holding it gently against her chest as she strode for the piano room. She’d left the safe open for when she needed to return the sheet.

 

Kestrel placed the sheet at the piano and then went to the kitchen. Dinner was already ready, waiting at the stove. Always her father’s favorites. Kestrel took a small serving, barely enough to notice there was even some missing and ate quickly. She only had so much time to play before she had to pretend that she hadn’t even breathed on the piano.

 

As she ate, Kestrel thought of her old nanny, Enai. Her heart grew heavy and her throat tightened, her food nearly spewing from her mouth. Enai had been her only friend, a mother figure in her life.

 

Her mother’s pregnancy was high risk, her doctors often telling her she couldn’t conceive and if she did, it could be fatal. Kestrel’s mother wanted a child and so she had one. But it meant that she needed to be watched at all times, and that was where Enai had come in. She’d taken care of her mother while Trajan was at work or away on business.

 

And when her mother died, it was Enai who cared for Kestrel. It was Enai who taught her to walk and talk, to read and write. It was Enai who told her about her mother, showed her pictures of her mother, and told her about the safe. It was Enai who fed her, clothed her, took her to and picked her up from school. It was Enai who helped her with her homework. It was Enai who tucked her into bed at night and woke her up in the morning. And it was Enai who encouraged Kestrel to learn the piano.

 

It was also Enai who had taken the beatings her father meant for Kestrel. Kestrel had seen the bruises on Enai’s body the day after her father caught her playing dress up with her mother’s clothes. Her nanny had told him she hadn’t been paying attention to Kestrel, that it was her fault and she would take responsibility. Kestrel distinctly remembered those words coming from her nanny’s mouth more than once — when Kestrel’s father caught her kissing and cradling a picture of her mother; when he caught her sitting at the piano bench, smashing on the keys pretending she was playing a concierto; when he caught her talking to a doll she’d made to look like her mother because he’d taken the pictures away.

 

_“I’m sorry, sir, I was cooking.”_

 

_“I’m sorry, sir, I was cleaning.”_

 

And always, always it would end with, _“I take full responsibility.”_

 

It was Kestrel who made the fatal mistake of calling Enai her stepmother. She was twelve at the time, and she’d been doing it so often when her father was gone, Enai taking pleasure every time she did, that it slipped from her mouth when she was recounting her day to her father as he’d made her do at the time.

 

He’d gone still, his fork still in his mouth. He’d lowered it gently, wiped his mouth with a napkin, wove his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands. _“Who is your stepmother, Kestrel?”_

 

She’d shoved a piece of chicken in her mouth, the centerpiece becoming very interesting then.

 

_“I asked you a question.”_

 

She’d chewed slowly. The air in the room growing thicker with each passing moment. She thought she was going to choke. On her food. On the air. By him.

 

 _“Enai,”_ Kestrel had finally said, softly.

 

 _“I see,”_ Trajan responded. He finished his meal and Kestrel finished hers.

 

Enai cleaned the dining room, the kitchen, and then tucked Kestrel into bed. She wasn’t there to wake her the next morning. When she’d asked her father, Trajan had simply told her, _“You’re old enough to look after yourself, now. You don’t need a babysitter.”_

 

Kestrel blinked away the tears that had sprung to her eyes. She glanced at the stove’s clock, forcing the rest of her food down her throat despite having lost her appetite. She cleaned up, put everything in its place, and padded to the music room.

 

She took a steady breath as she sat at the bench, scanning the music sheet, placing her fingers where they’d needed to be. She played her mother’s song. And when she was done, she played the song she’d formed during lunch, when Jess was talking about prom. Over and over until she’d worked out the kinks.

 

Kestrel stopped when she saw headlights fill the window. She checked the time, a gasp of disbelief escaping her. It was one in the morning - much later than she’d planned to play. Much later than Trajan had ever arrived home in the first place.

 

“Shit,” she cursed, snatching the sheet from the piano, quickly placing the seat back in its place.

 

She shut off the light and ran to the office. She tossed the sheet in the safe, fixing it and the money so that it looked like it hadn’t been touched. Kestrel slammed the safe shut, placed the painting back in place, glancing quickly to make sure it wasn’t crooked before running out of the room, shutting off the light and closing the door behind her.

 

She heard her father’s key slide into the lock. Kestrel dashed up the stairs for her room. She grabbed a few of her notebooks from her bag, opening them and spreading them on her desk. He wouldn’t notice which ones, he didn’t care about that. Just as long as she looked like she’d been in her room all day. She grabbed a textbook, too.

 

Then she sat on her bed, breathing deeply to catch her breath as she pretended to read. A glance in the mirror above her dresser let Kestrel know her face was red, but she couldn’t hide that. Not until she’d calmed down. Perhaps he wouldn’t check on her today.

 

She heard him move around downstairs. He’d eat first. He’d go to his office, then his room, and then he’d pay her a visit. It was his routine. Sometimes he’d skip his visit if he was too tired or if he just didn’t care enough.

 

But Kestrel heard his steps on the stairs. Her heart slammed in her chest. He was breaking his routine.

 

She pretended to read her textbook as the knob to her door turned. She could hear her heart in her ears. She hoped Trajan couldn’t.

 

“You’re awake,” he slurred.

 

She looked up at him. Trajan leaned heavily against her doorframe. His eyes were bloodshot, he swayed slightly. He was drunk. Kestrel thought her heart was going to burst. Trajan was drunk, staring at her as if he would cut her secrets from her flesh and she’d been in the piano room and his safe. And he knew.

 

“I,” she croaked. She cleared her throat and shrugged. “I have a lot of homework today.”

 

Trajan’s gaze shifted to her desk and then back to her. _Thud_ , _thud_ , _thud_ , went her heart. A hard, heavy rhythm of _he knew_ , _he knew_ , _he knew_.

 

He stepped into the room. He _never_ came into her room. Not once. Not even when she was a child.

 

Kestrel clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. She gripped her book tightly, to keep her hands from shaking. _He knew, he knew, he knew._

 

He stepped closer and closer to her, until he was standing before her.

 

_He knew, he knew, he knew._

 

“Whatever it is you’re expecting, Kestrel, you won’t find it here,” he said. Her nose wrinkled as the stench of whatever liquor he’d had suffocated her. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, patting them — slapping them — none too gently.

 

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” It was a question she wasn’t meant to answer, but she shook her head anyway.

 

“I see myself when I was younger. A nobody, a nothing. The son of a military man, bound to follow in his father’s footsteps. And I did until I hurt my back and had to return.”

 

His fingers grazed her nape. He was going to choke her, like he did when she’d asked if he’d hire her a music teacher to learn the piano. It was the only time Kestrel had ever asked him for anything.

 

“He was disappointed that I didn’t last longer, but I tried and that mattered to him. I rose up from there. I went to school, got my degree, worked my ass off to be where I am now. No longer a boy, but now a hardworking man who earned everything he deserved.”

 

Kestrel said nothing, listening to her father sing his own praises. Somehow, she’d felt as if he was only telling her this because he’d needed to hear them more than she did.

 

He peered down at her — _he knew, he knew, he knew_ — his lip slightly curling. “But when I look at you, Kestrel,” he growled out. His fingers pinched her ears, hard, pulling them out as if to make her hear him better. Her eyes watered, but she blinked her tears away. She would not cry. She would not cry in front of him. He pinched and pulled harder. “I see a nothing. A nobody.” He leaned down, his nose grazing hers. “You will never be anything more and you deserve absolutely nothing.”

 

Trajan released her ears, pressed a kiss to her head and left her room, shutting her door behind him.

 

Two months until she was eighteen and could move out. Three months until she graduated and could leave town.

 

Kestrel could make it.

 

***

 

The next morning, Kestrel awoke to an empty house.

 

Grateful, she thought as she studied her bruised ears in the bathroom mirror. She covered them with concealer and decided to leave her hair down for extra coverage.

 

Grateful, Kestrel thought again as she passed the room that held her mother’s piano and saw that it was still there.

 

She’d ignore the pit that seemed permanently lodged in her stomach for one day more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so technically kestrel's bday is supposed to be around the time she graduates, but um,,, i just needed it to be different so don't @ me for not following canon. xoxo


	2. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again she's looking a bit rough. especially since i struggled with this chapter for some reason. but i still hope you enjoy ☺️💕

The only rule of the house was that Arin shouldn’t be disturbed when he was in his home music studio. The exceptions being the most extreme things like death or natural disasters and their weekly family outings. Anything short of that, Arin didn’t want to hear a peep that didn’t come from any of the instruments or technology he worked with.

 

Anireh, however, seemed to frequently forget that rule. Arin knew she did it purposefully. His sister had made it her job to tease him from the moment he was born.

 

“Come on, Arin,” Anireh said from the door. “It’s a nice day out, and you’ve been holed up in this place for three days.”

 

“It’s called working, Anireh.”

 

“Well, you work too much.”

 

“Creativity doesn’t rest.”

 

“But you know who does rest?”

 

At this Arin narrowed his eyes at her, setting down the violin he held. Ah, she wanted something. He should’ve known. “I’m not going to help you at the studio. I helped you open it. I helped run the place for a year.”

 

Anireh rolled her eyes. “It has nothing to do with the store. It’s closed today, remember?” But he saw the way her shoulders sagged slightly. “Anyway, come with me,” she said, waving her hand in a come hither motion. “Or I’ll drag you out of here by that big head of yours. Worse, I’ll set fire to your music studio.”

 

She walked away, leaving Arin no choice but to follow. Knowing his sister, she _would_ set the studio on fire.

 

“Where are we going?” Arin asked begrudgingly. He had to get some demos made. It had been about two years since his last release. He’d done a year long world tour and when he’d returned home, he helped Anireh open her store.

 

Her shoulder lifted as she grabbed her keys from the catch all in the foyer, sliding on her shoes. “Can’t an older sister want to spend time with her dear, baby brother?”

 

No. Nothing good ever came of it, Arin thought, remembering the time Anireh had swindled him for his share of honeyed half-moons when they were younger as soon as their mother turned her back on them. Or when he and Sarsine would play and she’d stomp all over the make believe kingdom they’d built. Or when she had taken him with her to a party, but left him at the movie theater with some cash to get him by for the night so she could use him as an alibi. All in the name of spending time with her _dear, baby brother_.

 

Arin told her so.

 

Anireh scoffed. “And to think, all this time, all I’ve ever given you is nothing but my love.”

 

***

 

As it turned out, Anireh did want to spend time with him. Shopping. She needed to buy something for their parents upcoming anniversary and she wanted Arin’s input. Not that she needed it. He wouldn’t tell her, but Anireh gave the best gifts.

 

Arin had already bought them the tickets for the cruise they’d be leaving on just next week. He’d also bought them plane tickets and arranged for them to travel Ithrya Island for as long as they wanted to.

 

“What about this for Amma?” Anireh held up a scarp of cloth so sheer and lacy, Arin didn’t even see the point in buying it when you could just be naked.

 

He gagged, flushing. “Anireh, please stop. Be serious about this.”

 

She flung the piece of lingerie back into the pile. “I’m being plenty serious. Mom can take it with her on their trip. Father will love it, and because he does, so will she. If you catch my drift.”

 

“I’m trying very hard not to catch it. I’m actually blowing it the other way, thank you very much.”

 

His sister’s gaze drifted to him. She snorted with a shake of her head. “Prude.” She gripped his arm roughly as she dragged him from the lingerie store to the whatever store she had in mind for next.

 

From somewhere, Arin knew the security would follow. He hated having to use bodyguards, and most of the time he didn’t, but with the crowd steadily gathering with each stop and the constant asks for photos and autographs, he’d had to call them.

 

Part of him was upset that he’d allowed Anireh to bring him here in the first place. But then, Arin knew he’d do anything for his sister, even if it meant he had to deal with her bullying.

 

“Do you even have an idea of what you want to get them?” He asked, ripping out of her tightening grip. He fixed a glare on her.

 

“No,” she responded, eyeing a painting in one of the windows for a moment before brushing past it. “What do you get a couple who say they already have everything they need?”

 

That was true. His parents were the most humble and simple people he’d known, but it made birthdays and holidays difficult to shop for.

 

“You could always just pay me for half the trip expenses and call it a day,” he suggested. He didn’t mind.

 

Anireh sighed. “No, that’s fine. They already know it’s from you. If you suddenly slap my name on it, they’ll think I forgot or just didn’t care.”

 

Also true. Anireh had a habit of being so into herself, she rarely cared for things or people around her. She’d gotten better as she got older, especially once she’d seen that their mother cared for them equally and didn’t favor Arin.

 

Though she did, Arin thought smugly.

 

“Besides,” Anireh continued. “I don’t have all that money to spend, Mr. Triple-Platinum-Debut-Album Hot Shot Celebrity.”

 

She didn’t bother hiding the bitterness in her tone, but Arin didn’t let it get to him. Anireh was an artist at heart, but her paintings didn’t sell as well as she’d hoped they would. She’d had to take a job as a curator to pay off her school debts. Arin knew she hadn’t entirely hated her job, but he also knew that it was her dream to be the one who had _her_ paintings bought and selected, not the other way around.

 

It was why Arin told her to quit and open up a studio to teach others. It didn’t fix his sister’s crushed dreams, but at least she was somewhat happy. And that’s what mattered to him.

 

Arin glanced at her sidelong. She held her chin high, tense beside him as if waiting for a strike to come. He knew exactly the words she was expecting. They were on the tip of his tongue. _At least I didn’t fail at my dream._

 

But Arin was not his sister, who lashed out with whatever she could grasp to hurt people. So he swallowed them down.

 

They didn’t speak for the rest of the shopping trip.

 

***

 

Anireh eventually settled on lingerie as only part of their gift. She’d look elsewhere later — without Arin because he was useless as she put it.

 

When they returned home, Arin’s stomach grumbled at the warm scent of honey that welcomed them. It was the tell tale sign that his mother was baking honeyed half-moons.

 

Every week, she’d bake a batch. After they came home from their family outing, they’d have them for dessert. If they went out to eat, dessert was never ordered. It was a tradition his mother wanted to pass down to her grandchildren and so forth.

 

Arin knew it for what it truly was — a reward for Arin and Anireh showing up and spending time with their family. With Anireh busy with her studio, Arin constantly on the move or in his studio, his mother fighting to meet the deadlines for her latest book, and his father always grading papers or coming up with lesson plans, the family rarely spent time with each other outside of their set time.

 

“Amma,” Arin greeted when he entered the kitchen, his sister venturing off to find their father.

 

Arin could say a lot of things about his mother. She was kind, intelligent beyond what he could even imagine, beautiful, and the most graceful woman he’d ever known. Until she was in the kitchen. If his mother was cooking or baking, the kitchen resembled what Arin thought a war zone would look like. _It’s the ambiance of the thing_ , his mother had said of it once. _It what makes tradition._

 

Flour covered most of the counters and he could feel grains of sugar on the soles of his feet. Egg shells took up most of the sink. Arin was sure that if he touched the utensils, they’d be sticky with honey.

 

But for all that she made a mess, her honeyed half-moons came out just perfect. Every single time.

 

His mother broke her concentration from her baking to look up at him. She smiled so brightly, Arin couldn’t help but return it as she wiped powder from her hands onto her apron. Arin went to her, her arms wrapping around him and her lips pressing to his cheeks.

 

“My sweet child,” she patted his cheek and returned to her baking.

 

Arin took in the four trays of half-moons that were already finished and sitting on top of the table. “Amma, we already have more than enough for today. Why are you making more?”

 

“I won’t have time these next two weeks. I have a deadline I have to meet before we leave for the cruise. A cruise I’ll have to prepare for as well.” She cracked a few eggs into a bowl.

 

Arin would’ve helped her, but she would’ve waved him away. He wouldn’t have been much help anyway. If it were possible to burn water, Arin would’ve found a way to do it. Instead, he sat on a stool across from her spot at the island to give her room.

 

“Won’t they go bad?”

 

“I’m freezing them.”

 

“Ah.”

 

A comfortable silence settled over them, Arin watching as his mother baked. Once she set the final tray in the oven, she turned to her son. She studied him for no less than two seconds before she glowered at him.

 

“Arin,” she chastised.

 

Arin bit back a laugh. “I didn’t say anything.”

 

“Arin,” she said again with the same tone. She frowned. “You’re not coming with us tonight, are you?”

 

It amazed Arin how well his mother knew him. How well she knew Anireh and his father, too.

 

“How do you even know that?” He still asked dipping his finger in a glob of honey and putting it to his lips.

 

His mother set to cleaning up her mess. “You’re my son.” Her gaze glazed over him once more. “Anireh won’t handle it very well.”

 

“Anireh,” Arin huffed, standing from his stool to grab the broom. He could not help his mother with cooking, but at least he could help her clean. He’d done so as a child too, while his sister ran off the moment she’d licked the last crumb off her plate. “Doesn’t handle anything well.”

 

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Did she say anything again?”

 

“No.” And before she could press him, Arin added, “Nothing she hasn’t already said.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

Silence fell over them once more as they worked. His mother cleaned the dishes and stored the extra half-moons while Arin cleaned the floors and counters.

 

Lying to his mother was no easy feat. She could smell them from miles away. But he hadn’t wanted her to know what his sister had said in the car. Not yet at least. Though what she’d said had only validated the thoughts Arin had been having for a while, it still left him slightly bruised to hear it. Especially since it came from Anireh’s mouth.

 

The voices of the devil herself and his father pulled him from his thoughts. He swept the remaining bit of the floor before setting he broom back in the closet.

 

“I saved your portion in the drawer,” his mother murmured to him softly.

 

Before they’d lived in their current home, they lived in a much smaller one. They hadn’t been wealthy as they were now, but they were comfortable. Since Anireh had always swiped his share of the candy his father brought home for them, or broke the small toys his mother would bring home to them in half, his parents had created a secret place for his gifts. It had been a drawer in the kitchen there, too, because Anireh never bothered to deal with the room unless it was something she could throw in the microwave or oven.

 

They’d come home, hide whatever they’d brought him in his drawer and give Anireh her things. It was a system that worked flawlessly. Arin could have his things and Anireh believed she was the most beloved child when Arin didn’t receive anything.

 

Then Arin had bought their current home, and his drawer had transferred over despite his parents no longer bringing small surprises and Anireh no longer breaking his things or stealing them. It was for things like Arin’s portion of half-moons or another snack from his mother. His father often left him books.

 

When his father and sister came into the room, Anireh made a beeline for the half-moons his mother had transferred to a container on the island. She reached over and smacked one of his sister’s grabby hands away.

 

His father patted him on the back with a nod in greeting before he took up a spot near his mother. Arin and his father had never been particularly close. He was closer to his mother as his sister was closest to their father. But there had never been any animosity between them. They loved each other, but they didn’t have any common ground. And his father hadn’t been too thrilled at Arin for choosing not to go to college to pursue his dream in the music industry.

 

His father reached for his mother, pulling her to him and pressing a kiss to her temple. She smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips.

 

Anireh gagged.

 

Arin smiled. He wanted that and if it meant he’d die alone waiting for it, then he didn’t mind it at all.

 

“Please keep that to the confines of your bedroom,” Anireh said, her eyes still watching the half-moons as if they’d get up and disappear. And they would — if _she_ was the one getting up with a handful of them in her hand.

 

“Never mind that you’re the one telling them to go to the bedroom or that earlier you-“

 

“Arin! You’ll ruin the surprise!”

 

“Do neither of you have decency?” his father asked, his face flushed. He turned to his mother. “Did we raise a litter of wolves?”

 

His mother laughed, “I think it’s sweet they care so much about all the love it took to bring them into this world.”

 

Arin and Anireh shuddered.

 

“Enough of this.” Anireh made her way to the door. Her eyes never left the container of half-moons. Arin was sure if she could, she’d marry them. “Let’s get going. I’m hungry.”

 

Tension filled the air when his mother looked at him. He shifted under her gaze. His father eyed his mother, then him and frowned as understanding washed over him.

 

“Ah… About that…”

 

Anireh turned to him. Her eyes blazing. “You’re not coming.”

 

It wasn’t a question. He shook his head.

 

“And is Amma alright with you not coming?”

 

“Of course she is,” he nodded, sneaking a peek at his mother. She frowned at him, a clear warning not to egg Anireh on. “Mostly.”

 

“Dad?” Anireh raised a brow. They both turned to him.

 

His father shrugged. “If he has to work, we can’t interfere.”

 

They waited in silence, tensely. His sister was unpredictable. She could either be ecstatic that he would be absent from dinner or upset. More often than not, if Arin didn’t go neither did she. She’d say it wouldn’t be fair to be the only one subjected to their parents’ odious love fest, their father’s little logical quizzes, or every detail of their mother’s outlandish stories — many of which they could never tell were fake or true.

 

His mother would say it’s because she wanted Arin there.

 

“Fine,” Anireh finally said. “But I expect triple the portion of honeyed half-moons. Mine, Arin’s, and compensation for being left alone with two lovesick old goats.”

 

***

 

Arin heaved a sigh as he flopped onto his bed, crinkling the sheets of music he’d placed there. He groaned into his pillow. After spending a few grueling hours in his studio making no leeway on his songs, he’d moved to the comfort of his bedroom, hoping inspiration would strike.

 

His inspiration was taking a vacation in Dacra it seemed.

 

He couldn’t quite understand it. He’d written his first album in just two weeks. Why was he having such trouble now? No matter what he did, the words never seemed to go with the notes he wrote or the notes never seemed to go with the words he wrote. He couldn’t even tell anymore.

 

Perhaps his first album was meant to also be his last. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out for the industry. He didn’t have to be there. Arin was good with his hands, too. He could help Anireh. He could do something else like construction work. He could go to school.

 

Arin would do no such thing. Though he didn’t particularly enjoy the interviews or the social events, Arin loved singing.

 

He wasn’t going to let writer’s block keep him from it.

 

He reached for the plate on his nightstand, eating the last of his half-moon as he stared at a sheet of music until his eyes crossed. He was clearly not getting anywhere.

 

Arin checked the time on his phone. It was much later than he’d thought. He frowned. His family should’ve been back already. Though, they had gone to eat in Lahirrin, which was hours away. They could’ve decided to go to the movies after dinner. Perhaps they’d decided they’d stay the night.

 

But his mother would’ve texted him to let him know. He’d give them another hour before he called.

 

He stood from his bed, clutching a music sheet. He spent the next hour humming and singing, tapping a beat on a piece of furniture he’d thought would make the sound he needed, air playing chords on an air guitar. Some of it worked and some of it didn’t. Arin wasn’t going to complain. He’d made progress.

 

His family still wasn’t home.

 

He snatched his phone up from his bed and called his mother. It went straight to voicemail. He called again. He tried his father next. The phone rang, but he didn’t answer. Arin tried again and received the same automated voicemail greeting.

 

Something settled into his chest. His hands began to tremble. He dialed Anireh. No answer. He dialed again and again and again. No answer. No answer. _No answer._

 

He tried his mother once more, but the phone went straight to voicemail as if it were off. She’d never have it off.

 

He tried his father once more. This time someone answered.

 

“Dad, why isn’t anyone—”

 

A man that was most definitely _not_ Arin’s father interrupted. His heart plummeted right into his stomach. “Hello? Is this Arin?”

 

“Yes,” he replied, tersely.

 

“This is Officer Wensan.” The man paused. Arin could make out the sound of sirens and shouting in the background. “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your family’s been in an accident. They’re taking them to the hospital, but I have to warn you… It’s not looking good.”

 

Arin had never moved so fast in his life than in that moment. He tossed the music sheets to his bed and bolted out of the house.

 

But it didn’t matter how fast he moved. His family was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technically arin's sister is supposed to be 10 years older, but ya know... it was a necessary change. i made her 3 years older here.


	3. 3.

It had been two weeks since Arin had set foot in his house. He'd been staying with Sarsine after the funeral. He would've stayed longer, if it hadn’t been because of the guilt he felt intruding on her life. She’d told him she didn’t mind, Arin could stay for however long he needed. But he’d had no way of paying her back — she wouldn’t take his money or gifts — and Arin didn’t like to feel like he owed something. Even to family.

 

The silence deafened him. It clawed at his chest, seeped into his lungs and settled there, filling, filling, filling like a tire.

 

Arin inhaled shakily, keeping himself to the entrance of the foyer. His gaze sweeping the house as if it belonged to a stranger and it was his first time visiting. It was the same and yet it wasn’t. It was a house that had been full of laughter and love and light and now it was empty.

 

He took measured steps further into the house as if the ground would split beneath his feet if he wasn’t careful. He saw without seeing, climbing the stairs, passing room after room, his heart bleeding as he passed his sister’s and parents’, until he stood at the doorway of his.

 

The door was still open. The sheets of music he’d tossed on his bed after the phone call still untouched. For days, he’d tried to forget that damned phone call. He’d tried to wake up from the nightmare crafted from the depths of his fears.

 

But as he stood there, the phone call sounding in his ears, the sounds of the hospital buzzing with it, Arin’s body broke. This was real. This was very, very real. He choked a sob, sinking to his knees. Every tear he’d held back came rushing to the surface, drowning him.

 

He scrambled away, back hitting the wall. He put his head between his knees as he cried. And when his tears slowed, Arin laughed. An anger rose within him. At his family for leaving him, at whoever hit them and run like the coward they were, but mostly he was angry with himself.

 

He should’ve been with them. He was supposed to be with them, but he’d chosen to stay home and work on his album.

 

Arin laughed again. He wiped his face with his sleeve as he stood. He’d have to make a phone call later. But that would be later. For now, he needed to get out of the house.

 

***

 

Arin woke to the ringing of his phone. Or maybe it was his head. He didn’t remember falling asleep, let alone when he’d entered his parents room. He didn’t even remember getting home.

 

A groan escaped him as he shifted to his side. He heard the slosh of liquid before the shattering of glass. His head pulsed as he leaned over the side of the bed. He squinted in the dark to find a liquor bottle spattered on the floor. He didn’t remember grabbing it from his father’s liquor cabinet.

 

The buzzing and noise stopped. Arin thanked every god in existence as he shut his eyes. He’d deal with it later.

 

His phone rang again. He ignored it, pulling a pillow over his head. Whoever was calling him would have to wait until the morning — when normal people called. The phone stopped its ringing once more, and Arin fell into a light sleep.

 

Until the phone started ringing again.

 

He cursed under his breath, throwing the pillow across the room. He rolled to his stomach, his hand patting at the bed to find his phone. He found it under a heap of blankets, flinching at the light. His eyes flickered to the time, frowning when he saw that it was only eleven at night.

 

Trajan’s name was pasted on the screen. Ah, just the person he’d meant to call earlier, that much he remembered.

 

“Where are you?” Trajan snapped before Arin could unpaste his tongue from the roof of his mouth to greet him. He flinched again, lowering the volume.

 

“Hello to you, too,” he croaked. His head was going to explode.

 

Trajan sighed, frustrated. Arin could picture him rubbing at his brow as he so often did in Arin’s presence. “Arin, I don’t have the patience for your bullshit right now. _Where are you?_ ”

 

“Home. I meant to call you—“

 

“Have you seen the news?”

 

“What news?” Arin rubbed at his temples. “And can you please stop yelling? I can hear you just fine.”

 

“You’re drunk, I get it,” Trajan hissed. “There’s pictures of you getting trashed at the bar all over the news. What are you fucking thinking?” He strung out a few more curses. Arin lowered the volume more and held the phone away from his face until he heard Trajan ask him again if he’d seen them.

 

“No,” he responded. “I’ve been getting trashed, remember? People drink. Now, is that all? Because we need to talk about—“

 

Trajan interrupted him again. Arin would’ve smashed his phone against the wall if it hadn’t been for the trace of urgency in Trajan’s voice. “You’re fucked, Arin. Turn on the news. I’ll take care of your lawyer and meet you at your house. But I’m going to be honest with you, I don’t know how you’re getting out of this. See you soon.” He hung up.

 

Arin’s stomach bubbled, churning and threatening to spill its contents on the floor. He wasn’t entirely sure whether it was the apparent large amount of alcohol he’d consumed or the fear of whatever he’d find on the news.

 

He checked his call log first, stalling. Sarsine had called him eight times. Trajan had called him three times before Arin answered. A few of his celebrity friends had called or texted him. He didn’t open them. He’d call Sarsine later.

 

Finally, he opened his web app and searched his name. His heart sank into his stomach, adding to the threat of vomiting.

 

There were pictures and videos of him at a local bar, tossing down drink after drink and growing increasingly angry at the amount of phones snapping his photo until he finally left. That must’ve been when he’d gotten home and continued drinking from his father’s stash.

 

But there were worse things. Each article sent bile rushing to his throat.

 

_BREAKING: ARIN SPOTTED AT A BAR, DRINKING HIS GRIEF OVER LOSS OF SISTER LOVER_

 

_DID ARIN MURDER HIS FAMILY FOR HIS SISTER?_

 

_BREAKING: ARIN’S BOUGHT SUCCESS_

 

_TOP TEN SUSPICIOUS MOMENTS BETWEEN ARIN AND ANIREH_

 

They were accusing him of incest. The so called proof? Pictures of Anireh holding up articles of lingerie to him when they went shopping for his parents anniversary. Pictures of them hugging or kissing each other’s cheeks in goodbye. They twisted every interaction Arin had had with his sister in public and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about it.

 

He was accused of stealing money from Valoria Entertainment. They didn’t have anything for that one yet, just rumors. But the pictures of him and his sister seemed believable, so why not believe that too?

 

They accused him of a murder plot gone wrong.

 

Arin dropped his phone, leaned over the side of the bed and emptied the contents of his stomach where the spilled liquor was starting to set in.

 

The doorbell rang.

 

***

 

Arin remembered everything in flashes.

 

Sarsine being the first to barge through his door. The screams of questions thrown at them and the quick, constant blankets of white a sign of the paparazzi and new vans already gathering at the front gates. Sarsine told him she’d seen more on the way. Then she’d eyed him before pulling him into a hug and reassuring that everything would be fine. He would have believed it once, but the words rang false in his ears.

 

His lawyer and his manager came next. The crowd outside had grown. Some people were trying to get over the gates. Arin remembered arguing with the three of them. Then he remembered the three of them arguing while he cleaned the mess he’d left in his parents room. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what everyone was screaming about.

 

He remembered Trajan leaving. His lawyer stayed. Together, she and Sarsine grilled into what he would say to the press. How they’d find who’d leaked the so called evidence that spread throughout the media. How they’d sue for slander.

 

Sarsine had yelled, “What do we do?”

 

She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

 

The moment the sun was in the sky, Arin found his wrists cuffed and he was being led to the back of a police car. He didn’t remember the ride. He didn’t remember what happened at the station.

 

In fact, Arin didn’t remember most of anything in the days — the weeks — to follow.

 

But he vividly remembered putting on a suit and tie. He remembered the words “not guilty” slipping from his lips, and the sheer disbelief and disgust on Judge Inishanaway’s face.

 

He remembered Sarsine had paid his bail and took him to her house because there was still a large crowd at his.

 

And then Arin remembered waiting for his trial. He showered every morning. He got dressed. He ate. And he waited.

 

Trajan had visited him numerous times, had called him even more, for interviews, for appearances, for special performances. Arin turned them all down.

 

He’d remembered weeks before, when he and Anireh had went shopping.

 

They’d been driving back home, Arin’s phone had rung. He’d pulled it out and immediately placed it back in his pocket.

 

 _“Everyone knows you don’t like him._ He _knows you don’t like him. I don’t know why you even have him as your manager,”_ his sister told him.

 

Arin had shrugged. _“He’s the best in the business. I don’t think I’d be where I’m at without him.”_

 

They’d stopped at a red light. Anireh turned to him, biting the inside of her cheek. She’d frowned at whatever she’d seen on his face.

 

 _“You’d be exactly where you are now without him,”_ she said. _“Maybe even better.”_

 

The light had turned green. Anireh hit the gas. He hadn’t said anything after that. He should have.

 

He fired Trajan. It was his career that got him into this mess. And the more Arin thought about it as he waited for his next trial, the more he realized that he didn’t trust Trajan — that he never truly had and how much of a mistake it was to hire him.

 

The crowd dispersed when Arin never showed his face at his house, leaving only a trickle of persistent people left.

 

When that happened, Arin touched the back of Sarsine’s hand and said, “I want to go home.” She took him home late that night, using the hour as cover from the paparazzi. She’d wanted to stay with him, but he wanted to be alone.

 

Arin stood at the entrance of the foyer as he had weeks ago. This time he welcomed the silence as a comforting hug from the people who no longer lived there, who no longer lived.

 

Things were out of place from his house being investigated. He’d deal with that some other time. He would give himself one last day, he decided.The next, Arin would move on.

 

He slept on the floor of his room.

 

When Arin woke the next morning, he showered. He ate. He stared at the piano in the living room. There was nothing he could do about that but leave it there. He studied the room he’d turned into his studio. It, like the rest of the house, was askew from being searched. Unlike the rest of the house, however, Arin wouldn’t touch this one. He closed the door, locked it, then turned on his heel for his room.

 

 

***

 

The music had stopped.

 

The world was nothing but murky water and muffled sounds.

 

Arin tucked the music sheets he’d left strewn on his bed away in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, beneath all junk he kept there. Unfinished songs for unfinished lives.

 

The music had stopped.

 

He slammed the drawer shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 99% sure i screwed the legal system up but did i really?


	4. 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the abuse tw tag is there for a reason. also, this is the last instance where the tag will apply (at least for detail). please read with caution. and if you have an ED/issues with food, please also be cautious when reading. 
> 
> nevertheless, i hope you enjoy 🤗💕

Kestrel jumped at the slam of her locker shutting. She’d barely managed to move her hand away in time.

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jess said icily, leaning against the adjacent locker with her arms folded across her chest. If the tone of her voice wasn’t an indication that she was still upset, then the flare of her nostrils was a dead giveaway.

 

It was unlike Jess to be so angry. For one thing, she’d said it was an ugly emotion. She never knew what to do with it and it made her feel dirty. For another thing, she’d said being angry wasn’t good for your skin. She didn’t want premature wrinkles.

 

“You’re angry,” Kestrel replied, opening her locker again to retrieve the last of her things for her next class. “I was giving you space to cool off.”

 

It wasn’t entirely true — Kestrel had simply wanted to be left alone for the day but, even so, it was true enough. She knew Jess. She needed time to process things before being able to discuss them. And despite herself, Kestrel did care for her. Jess and Ronan had been her best friends since they were kids. Kestrel could leave and still have them, couldn’t she? It wasn’t as if she’d have to deal with her father.

 

The pit in Kestrel’s stomach roiled, slithering into her throat, into her blood. Warmth spread and yet leeched from her body. She chin wobbled, she clenched her jaw shut. Her chest tightened.

 

From the moment Kestrel had opened her eyes that morning, she’d felt this on and off. Something was wrong, something was off, but Kestrel couldn’t place what. Her day had started off the same: her father was gone, she checked the piano. She’d tried eating, but the moment food had touched her tongue she’d wanted to vomit. So she left for school earlier than normal.

 

But in the back of her mind, there was an alarm bell for something she couldn’t see. It would shut off, but at random moments it would buzz again.

 

She was wrong. Jess loved her family. She wouldn’t leave for college, she’d go to a local one to stay close to them and be there for Ronan’s visits. If Kestrel visited, she’d have to stay with Jess. With her parents. Jess’ father who worked at Valoria and Jess’ mother who was one of her father’s clients. She’d never escape from him.

 

Jess sighed. “I’ve thought about it. You were right. I shouldn’t be so quick to assume things.” She stepped away from the locker to pull Kestrel into a hug. Kestrel leaned into the warmth, hoping Jess wouldn’t feel how violently she wanted to tremble. Maybe she was.

 

There was a whistle and a hoot from down the hall. Kestrel peered over Jess’ shoulder to see Irex, a boy from one of her classes and someone else she had grown up with, pointing in their direction. When he noticed her gaze, he waggled his brows at them. She glowered until he’d looked away.

 

She’d rejected him once, and since then he’d found little ways to irritate her. Mostly by trying to dissect her relationship with Jess. Whether they were or were not more than just friends was none of his business, but the rumors he’d tried to spread hurt Jess more than Kestrel.

 

As if she’d known exactly who’d been taunting them, Jess pulled away. Kestrel felt a little better. The tightness in her chest had gone and she didn’t feel like her whole body was vibrating. Her best friend’s hug had been much needed.

 

Jess’ smile lit up the earth. “I know that you do trust me, Kestrel. I’m sorry for being dramatic. I know when you’re ready, you’ll come to me.”

 

If that wasn’t a slap in the face, Kestrel didn’t know what was. And she’d been on the receiving end of a few of them, too.

 

Still, Kestrel could do nothing but smile at her best friend. She shut her locker and looped her arm with Jess just as the bell rang. As they walked toward each of their classes, Kestrel whispered, “I’ll always go to you.”

 

Jess didn’t hear.

 

***

 

Jess had invited her to the mall, still on her quest to convince Kestrel to go to prom. There was only a week left. Two more until her birthday. Jess fought harder each day to make her go, both for a dress and to figure out what to buy Kestrel for her birthday. Kestrel had declined, claiming sickness.

 

At least _that_ had been the truth. Kestrel was drained and miserable. She still felt the alarm bells going off. She’d thought it had been because she’d hurt Jess’ feelings, but they’d reconciled and her anxiety remained.

 

As she reached the gates of her home, she scanned the driveway for her father’s car. It wasn’t there, but she’d still check his office. Maybe. She wanted her bed, and if she went straight to her room she wouldn’t have any plans to play the piano until the next day. She’d have no reason to make sure he was home because she wouldn’t be doing anything.

 

Even as she thought it, pushing the front door open, her fingers tingled. Kestrel played that piano every day. The habit was embedded into the very marrow of her bones. So as exhausted as she was, and as ill as she felt, Kestrel would sit on the bench and play.

 

She checked on the piano, then made the trek up the stairs to dump her stuff into her room before checking her father’s office. Empty. Good. Kestrel eyed the painting for a moment before deciding that she wouldn’t play her mother’s song. She didn’t feel like bringing the painting down and cracking the safe open, then having to put it all back before her father arrived.

  
After the night she’d nearly been caught for the first time, the night he’d broken his routine, these last two months he’d been breaking it more often. She’d have to be sneakier about her own routine. Besides, Kestrel had worked out a new song during gym class and she wanted to test it out on the instrument.

 

She didn’t have much of an appetite. She hadn’t had breakfast and she’d skipped lunch, opting to spend her lunch in the library to play Bite and Sting on one of the computers. The thought of eating now sent a wave of revulsion through her. Still, she went to the kitchen.

 

The sight of the clear stove sent the alarm bells off in her head. She checked the oven to find it empty. It was unusual for dinner not to be ready when she got home from school.

 

Kestrel grabbed an orange from the fruit basket, keeping her eyes on the stove as if her blinks would make food magically appear. Something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. She peeled the orange, swallowing down her disgust at the scent as she brought a piece to her mouth.

 

Her throat tightened as she chewed and she had to force it down. She followed with another slice of the orange, not even bothering to chew in it properly.

 

When Kestrel was done, she threw the peel away, and washed her hands in the sink as she cast one last glance at the stove.

 

“It’s nothing,” she mumbled to herself. _Something isn’t right_ , her body responded. “It’s nothing,” Kestrel said again, striding for the music room. “It’s nothing.”

 

 _It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing_ , her heart pounded along as she sat the piano bench and lifted the lid covering the keys.

 

She steadied her breathing as she played part of her mother’s song and then part of one of her own to warm up. She eased into the melody she’d thought of at gym, wincing when she hit a note she’d thought would work, and starting over with a different one.

 

Two hours later, Kestrel had nearly had the song right when the lid slammed shut on her fingers. She stared at her covered hands, the pain not registering until the lid lifted and slammed down again. Once, twice.

 

Kestrel screamed as she cradled her hands to her chest, pain lancing through her fingers to her arms, her elbows. She was pushed to the ground. Her screams turned to choking sobs. Her fingers were broken. Perhaps shattered. _She couldn’t play, she couldn’t play._

 

She didn’t need to look up to know who had broken her fingers. He wasn’t supposed to be home. She scrambled away, but he took hold of her hair and dragged her back to him.

 

“ _This is what you do?”_ Her father growled. He threw her to the floor. “I give you a home. I feed you. I clothe you, and you steal from me?”

 

No, oh no no _no_. He knew about the money. Kestrel trembled violently. She choked on her sobs, on the air. _She couldn’t breathe._ Trajan kicked her. He was going to kill her. She scrambled away again, trying for the door. He kicked her again.

 

“Where did you learn the code, Kestrel?” He asked. When she didn’t answer, he leaned over to slap her. “Where. Did. You. Learn. The. Code?” Trajan held her jaw in his hands. His eyes were bloodshot and wide. Liquor coated his breath. He was going to kill her. “Where’s the money? Who told you about that song?”

 

Kestrel said nothing, struggling to and when it was clear that all she would do was cry and plead for him to stop — to let go, for someone to help — he shoved her. Her head hit the wall.

 

“I see,” he said.

 

Trajan left the room for a moment. She tried to move, she had to run. But she was so tired and her body was in pain.

 

When he returned, he held a bat in his hands.

 

 _I’m going to die_.

 

But he didn’t move toward her. He went to the piano.

 

“No!” Kestrel screamed.

 

He raised the bat over his head and brought it down on the instrument. Over and over again.

 

“No, stop!” Kestrel pleaded as Trajan smashed the piano to pieces. Keys flew through the room to the ground. “Don’t. Dad. _Please._ ” _Please don’t take her away. Please stop taking my mother away._

 

Kestrel couldn’t take her eyes from the shattered piano. Not as Trajan strolled toward her, bat still in hand. Not as he grasped her hair and dragged her through the hall. Not as he tossed her out of the front door, her body tumbling down the stairs.

 

“Don’t come back. You’re dead to me.” Trajan huffed out a laugh as he watched Kestrel struggle to get up. “You’re nothing. Now you have nothing to match. It’s what you’re best suited for, after all. You’ll thank me later.” He slammed the door shut. She heard the click of the lock.

 

Kestrel lay on the ground, seeing the piano break. Seeing the lid close on her fingers. Seeing the door slam shut. She cried. She cried until her tears ran out, but sobs still broke free. She cried until she forced herself to stand, to climb the stairs.

 

She cried, biting back the horrid pain that ran through her hands as she pounded on the front door.

 

“Dad!” Kestrel cried. “Daddy, please! I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She hissed as she gripped the doorknob to jiggle it. Her hand couldn’t close around it. “Papa! Papa!”

 

In the distance, Kestrel heard the wail of sirens.

 

“Dad! Papa, I’m sorry. I love you. Please!”

 

The realization of it was like a slap in the face. It wasn’t a lie. She did love him — he was her father. She’d had the money, she could’ve left whenever she wanted. She didn’t have to wait until her birthday. And the piano… It may have been her mother’s, but there were others. She could’ve saved for that too, someday. He wouldn’t have cared if she left. Yet, she stayed. Because he was her father, because she didn’t want to leave him alone, and she _loved_ him.

 

The sirens grew louder and louder. Kestrel could see lights flashing, drawing closer.

 

She bolted out of the front gate as a police cruiser pulled up. A cop stepped out.

 

“Miss?”

 

“Officer, you have to—“ Kestrel halted as she took a good look at the cop in front of her. She knew him. She’d seen him at the very few events her father had taken her to when she was younger. He was Trajan’s friend. _Oh_. She hid her hands behind her back, clenching her jaw in pain.

 

“Miss? We got a call about a disturbance. Do you know anything about that?”

 

Kestrel shook her head, taking a few steps away. Her voice cracked as she said, “No. No. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

 

Then she turned away and ran. She didn’t have an inkling of where she’d go. Or if the cops would follow.

 

Her money was gone. Her phone, too. She could try Jess, but what would Jess say if she saw her? What would she do? Kestrel didn’t know.

 

Trajan had called the cops on his daughter. She didn’t want to think about what that meant.


	5. 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this might be one of my favorite chapters in the entire fic. you'll get the other ones toward the end. 😉

3 Months Later

 

“Aren’t you sick of being here?” Sarsine sighed as she slid Arin a plate of food. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Like, I don’t know, get back in the damn studio?”

 

Arin flinched. “Why would I do that when you continuously feed me this excellent, five star cuisine?”

 

Sarsine said nothing as she took a seat across from him to dig into her own plate. They both knew her attempts were futile. Since _that time_ , Arin had vehemently refused to even think about anything to do with music. Once Valoria Entertainment dropped the charges they’d placed against him for embezzlement, and his finances were unfrozen, the first thing Arin did was pay a hefty sum to Jadis Records for breaking his contract. The second thing he did was move. He’d bought a three bedroom condo far away from the city he’d lived in with his family. He’d left everything in the house, emptied it of perishable like the half-moons his mother had made before she—

 

Arin shook his head. He wouldn’t think of it. All he’d taken with him was the piano. Everything else he’d bought brand new. But he rarely spent time in his new, very empty home. He was always at Sarsine’s house. She hadn’t minded until she learned that Arin hadn’t intended to go back to his celebrity life. A decision he was so fixed on, he hadn’t bought a TV for his place to avoid the entertainment news and he’d erased his social media apps from his phone. She’d made it her personal mission to get him back to it.

 

“I could just let you starve, if that’s what you prefer, _cousin_.”

 

Ah, she was truly upset with him, then. And it wasn’t because he didn’t want to sing anymore. He eyed her warily as he took a bite of his food. They ate in silence. Sarsine would speak when she wanted to.

 

He was grateful she had stopped asking when he’d sell the house. She didn’t understand why he still had it if he’d left it. He didn’t either. He never planned to return to it, but he didn’t want to let it go. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Regardless, it was paid for in full and he’d shut everything off. At least he didn’t have to worry about that. He’d sold Anireh’s studio-store, though. He’d had no use for that anymore.

 

It wasn’t that Sarsine didn’t understand his grief—she did. They’d been her parents just as much as they’d been his. Her father had died of cancer when she was younger, and her mother… decided getting high was more important than her daughter. While his parents hadn’t raised her—her paternal grandmother had done that—they’d never made her feel unwelcome, and she’d often be at his house. It was why he’d been much closer to her than to his own sister.

 

“It’s like watching a dead man walk,” she said as Arin took their empty plates to the sink. It reminded him of his mother. It was a hard habit to break. He blinked furiously, glad that Sarsine was facing his back.

 

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘zombie’,” he replied.

 

He felt a placemat hit the back of his neck.

 

“I’m being serious, Arin.”

 

Arin dried the plates. He put the in their cabinet. He blinked. Then he turned to his cousin. “So am I. Do I need to buy you a dictionary?”

 

Sarsine pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes trailed upward. She inhaled, exhaled, turned her gaze on him once more. “Look, Arin. It’s been three months,” she said with a frown. “You don’t leave your house unless it’s to come here or to stock up on whatever it is you need.”

 

For good reason. Arin had been swarmed with paparazzi wherever he went, always asking _Is it true? Was it true? How did you get away with it?_ But he was never asked why he’d been blamed for things he hadn’t done. Never asked how he felt that the media had turned on him so quickly, just as they had loved him. They’d died down with the months, now that there was someone new for them to taunt. Since he didn’t bother with keeping up with the media, Sarsine filled him in. A new singer, named Roshar, and his band were the it thing. She’d told him Roshar and him were often compared.

 

Always trying to coax him. It never worked. Arin didn’t care. He only cared that he’d been left alone. Mostly. There were a few paps who’d follow him here and there, but they’d eventually get bored and leave.

 

“You’ve given up on the one thing you loved most,” she continued.

 

“I loved my family most,” Arin snapped.

 

Sarsine flinched. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

He knew that. Music had been his passion. His driving force. It _had_ been. It had also been the reason he’d lost his family. He’d chosen to stay behind to work on an album that he didn’t even know if he could write. _I should have been there. I should have been there._

 

His eyes burned.

 

“It’s just,” Sarsine paused. “I can’t look at you like this, Arin. So unhappy. So, so…”

 

Dead. _I should have been there._ Maybe he had been and this was all a lie. Arin rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, pressing them into his lids until spots danced in his vision. He heard the screeching of instruments in his head. No, not instruments. It was the beeping of the monitor in the hospital. The shouts of nurses and doctors. Was it possible to drown without water? To drown from sound instead?

 

He heard Sarsine’s chair squeak and her soft footsteps toward him. Three fingers touched the back of each of his hands.

 

“They wouldn’t want this for you.”

 

“Don’t.” He pushed her away. “ _Don’t._ ”

 

He had to leave or he’d be crushed under the weight of the words he’d left unsaid, of the music he’d left unwritten. Of the family who’d left him behind and the family who wouldn’t let him forget.

 

Arin stalked for the front door.

 

Sarsine followed, yelling, “Arin, please. At least talk to someone! You can’t keep pretending it never happened when you can’t even leave your house.”

 

“I’m here, aren’t I? Is this my house?” He tugged on one boot, tied the laces. Did it with the other.

 

“Arin. Arin, stay. Talk to me.”

 

He grabbed his keys. He turned to her and, with all the bite he could muster, said, “Don’t tell me how to grieve, Sarsine. Remember that you were only a child when your drug loving mother left you and your father died. You’re lucky to not know what it is to grieve.”

 

Sarsine recoiled with a sharp gasp. A beat of silence passed between them—Arin glaring down at his cousin and Sarsine searching his face for… something. Regret, possibly.

 

Arin would regret his words later. He’d remember that his parents were her aunt and uncle. He’d remember that his sister was her cousin, too. He’d remember that she was grieving, too, and that he should be there for her just as much as she’d been there for him. But right now he needed to leave.

 

Sarsine rolled her shoulders, standing straighter. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She blinked and the hurt in her eyes turned into seething rage. “I am not telling you not to grieve, Arin. Grieve. For however long you’d like, you grieve. But you must also _live_ , Arin. How disappointed my aunt would be to see you like this. How disgusted. And Anireh? Think of her gloating. Don’t even get me started on your father.”

 

She took a step toward him.

 

With as much venom as he’d given her, Sarsine spat, “This—you,” she waved her hand over him, “are a coward. Pathetic. A spoiled brat who’s lost his enablers and now can’t function in the world of grown men.”

 

Each word stomped him into his boots, into the wood flooring, into the foundation of Sarsine’s apartment building. Each word pummeled him down, down, down, until he was six feet, eight feet, ten feet under, in the bowels of hell, right where he belonged. He was choking, he was drowning. _I should have been there_.

 

“You’re right,” he said finally, when he could find his voice again. “I do have better things to be doing.”

 

Arin could’ve sworn he heard her say not to come back as he left her apartment. She didn’t have to worry about that, though. He’d had no plans to do so.

 

***

 

Arin drove around aimlessly for hours. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind. He supposed he could’ve gone back home, but he’d needed air. Sounds. Life.

 

It wasn’t until Arin recognized a bent up one-way sign for a street containing massive, gated houses that he realized he _had_ driven home. He’d driven to his old home. His heart sank deep into his stomach. He should turn around. He should leave. He had no business being there, not anymore.

 

Still, he inched the car forward until he parked right in front of the house. He didn’t get out of the car. He didn’t even look at it. He just sat there, staring distantly at a neighboring house.

 

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. It came from the bushes in front of his house. They moved again.

 

Arin took a quick glance at the house. _It was just a house._ The emptiness in his chest, the ache in his bones, the numbness in his soul were not _just_ , though. Someone was stepping out of the bushes. A pap, no doubt.

 

Arin didn’t stay to find out. He’d started the car and left without looking back. Perhaps he’d call the realtor tomorrow.

 

Perhaps it was time to sell the house.

 

***

 

He didn’t want to go back to his empty condo just yet, he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. So Arin had driven around until the sun set and until he’d nearly run out of gas. When that happened, he parked his car and started walking.

 

As Arin walked, he realized he was in an unfamiliar neighborhood this time. It wasn’t completely deserted, but it wasn’t the lively areas he was used to, either. Most of the buildings weren’t in the best condition, some were completely run down. There was a certain beauty in them, and he wondered what happened to them. Where were the people who’d once lived or worked in them? Why weren’t the buildings taken care of?

 

Anireh would’ve loved to paint them as they were or even their stories.

 

“Enough,” he muttered to himself. “Enough.”

 

Instead, he watched the people in the little shops that were still open, watched some of them close a shop down and make their way home. Each person had a different beat, a different tune that played out in his head. The man closing his barbershop had a jazzy beat that made Arin want to tap his feet. The woman in her boutique, taking last minute measurements before she closed up for the night had a softer, slower, pop-r&b tune that Arin hummed along to.

 

He caught himself and stopped as he paused at the corner of an intersection to wait for the light to change. Further ahead, he caught sight of a diner across the street. His stomach grumbled in response. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to eat before he went home. He also needed to get gas and made mental note to ask where the quickest gas station was.

 

As he waited for the crosswalk sign to change, his gaze landed on a girl with golden hair, wrapped up in a ponytail, standing in front of a store, staring dazedly. A peek at the sign overhead told him it was a music store. He immediately tensed. It was almost as if the world was taunting him. He focused his attention on the girl again.

 

Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers tapping at her thighs. For some reason, he thought that she didn’t look like she belonged there, in slightly tattered clothes no less. He thought it even more so when he recognized the popular pants she was wearing because Anireh had had a few pairs of her own. She felt familiar to him, and he didn’t know why and he instantly felt bad for not remembering her.

 

The light changed, and, as he crossed the street, Arin decided that it didn’t matter if he knew her or not. He’d never see her again. Besides—Arin would recognize hair like hers anywhere.

 

As he grew closer to the girl, close enough to see that she had her eyes shut and had possibly been staring at a piano in the window’s display, he’d noticed that her hands had stopped moving. As if his movement had broken whatever trance she was in. She shook her head and turned to him, to walk away and cross the street. Their eyes met briefly, and he was taken aback slightly by how brightly they shone with determination, with fear, with… something else that he couldn’t quite name.

 

She was pretty, he supposed. Quite small, too. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by staring at her for too long, so he looked away.

 

As they passed each other, he felt a slight tug at his pocket. His hand instantly shot out, grabbing at her bony wrist. He noted a star shaped freckle at the base of her thumb on the hand that held his wallet. He turned to her, her wrist still in his grasp.

 

Her eyes were as wide as saucers. She almost looked like she was going to cry. She wrenched her hand away from him, clutching his wallet to her chest. She kicked him in the shin _hard_ and ran away back toward the way he came.

 

Arin hissed, rubbing his leg for a moment, but never taking his eyes off the girl. He straightened just before she ran around the corner and ran after her.

 

“Get back here,” he shouted at her. That had been proven to be a stupid move because she only pushed her legs faster and began to turn more corners to try to shake him off. But his legs were longer than hers, and her constant turning only made her slower. She turned into an alley.

 

He’d reached her, grabbing at the back of her shirt. She skidded to a stop. She thrashed, draping his wallet to the ground as she kicked and swung her arms behind her to try to hit him. She’d succeeded in smacking him twice before he took hold of both her wrists this time. She immediately went limp, curling her hands into fists and trying to hold them as close to her as she could with his firm grip.

 

“I’ll let you go, if you promise to not to hurt me and that you’ll give me my wallet back,” he said. “If not, I think I’d rather have you restrained while the cops arrive.”

 

The girl said nothing. She didn’t even give him a nod of her head. She remained frozen. Was she trembling or did he just imagine the tremor in her arms?

 

Arin frowned, gathering both of her slim wrists into one of his hands so he could turn her to face him. He used his foot to drag his wallet closer to him to scoop up in a moment.

 

The girl’s eyes had glazed over and—was she crying? If she hadn’t been trembling before, she was definitely trembling now. She mouthed things he couldn’t understand. He read _sorry_ on her lips. Was she apologizing to him? Apologizing for getting caught? Or something else entirely? His brows knitted together. She was… afraid of him? But she wasn’t looking at him, she wasn’t _seeing_ him.

 

“Hey,” Arin said, softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Slowly, he released his grip on her. “See?”

 

The moment his touch left her skin, she pulled her hands to her chest and skittered away from him. But she didn’t run. Her wide eyes met his for the second time that night. For the second time, he was caught off guard. Fear, wariness, anger, he saw all of it. But he also saw how light her brown eyes were—nearly gold— and was entirely consumed by them.

 

She watched him as he grabbed his wallet from the ground. Her eyes narrowed at him. She cleared her throat and asked so softly he almost didn’t hear her, “You’re not—” she licked her lips, “You’re not going to call the police?”

 

Arin shook his head, lifting his wallet. “If you’d assaulted me again or refused to give me my wallet back, I would have.”

 

The girl nodded once, twice. She seemed satisfied with that answer.

 

For the second time that night, Arin felt as if she didn’t belong there. He didn’t know why it bothered him, but it did.

 

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” Then she spun on her heel and started to run away.

 

“Wait.”

 

She stopped, turning to him with a frown. She gnawed on her cheek with worry as if she thought he’d changed his mind. Arin opened his wallet and pulled out some cash. He held it out to her. She blinked, her brows furrowing as she stared at his outstretched hand.

 

After a beat, one that made him believe she wouldn’t take it and he’d look like an idiot, her gaze shifted to him. “I try to steal from you, and you’re giving me money?”

 

Arin flushed. Apparently, he looked like an idiot regardless. But he simply shrugged.

 

The girl tilted her head as she eyed him from head to toe. Heat pricked at his skin and he was sure his blush had deepened. She took steady, measured steps toward him. Her fingers brushed against his as she took the money from him.

 

Later, he would find it odd that a girl from the streets had such soft fingers. For now, all he could pay attention to was the zing that traveled through him. From the way her lips had parted slightly, he knew she’d felt it too.

 

She stepped away from him again, tucking the money into one of her pockets. “Thank you.”

 

Before he had a chance to respond, she had run away.

 

***

 

Arin thought of her as he lay in his bed that night. How her clothes, despite being shredded in some places and he was sure heavily stained with dirt (he hoped), belonged to higher end brands. How, even though she’d tried to steal his wallet and used self defense (horribly) to get away from him, she didn’t come off as a gruff thug. How soft her fingers had been, how she held her hands to her body as if cradling a child. He wondered if she had always been a thief.

 

What haunted him the most were her eyes. They were so open, so _raw_ it made Arin’s heart race.

 

He should’ve asked for her name. He wondered if she would’ve given it to him.

 

Just before he fell asleep, he remembered something. He grabbed his phone and texted Sarsine, _I’m sorry._

 

 _I know,_ she responded almost immediately, as if she had been waiting by her phone all this time. _I’m sorry, too._

 

_I know._

 

Arin drifted off to dreams of lithe fingers dancing over piano keys.


	6. 6.

For the last two weeks, Kestrel couldn’t help but feel as though she were being watched. Or followed. She thought it was both. Then again, in the last four months she’d always been paranoid that her father would send someone for her. Usually she imagined it would be to apologize and bring her back home to be a real family, but sometimes her thoughts would take a more sinister turn.

 

Those were the nights she didn’t sleep, her eyes sweeping her surroundings over and over and over.

 

The first month out on the streets was her hardest. Her fingers were broken. She had no money. She didn’t know where to go or what to do.

 

The hospital had been her first place of haven. But they’d ask questions, and she wasn’t even sure if she was on her father’s insurance. Let alone if her father had insurance at all. And who knew what he’d do when he received the bill for the visit.

 

Instead, Kestrel had fashioned splints of her own, using sticks (which she was sure wasn’t entirely hygienic) and bandaged her hands with strips of her clothes. It had been incredibly sloppy, and Kestrel was sure she’d done more damage to her hands than she’d helped them, but it helped her to not move them so much.

 

Her second choice had been Jess. But Jess would ask about her hands. She’d tell her parents. Her parents would either not care and side with her father, or they’d be so horrified they would take her in and report Trajan. Kestrel knew which decision her best friend’s parents would make. Trajan had never given them a reason to believe that he was anything but the successful, hardworking and charming man they knew.

 

Kestrel thought of Jess now. She wondered if Jess was worried about her. She wondered if anyone at school was worried about her. She wondered what her father had told them when the school called him about her absence.

 

_That night_ , Kestrel had walked. And walked. And walked. She’d walked until she was sure she was far enough away from the city she’d lived in, the father that had kicked her out and then called the cops on her. She’d hid when she was too tired to continue. She’d tried to sleep, but the pain in her fingers had prevented her. Her fear didn’t help her sleep, either.

 

In the morning, Kestrel had continued walking.

 

She had been sure she was going to die. Whether it was because of her father coming for her, or because she couldn’t use her hands, and therefore couldn’t get a job or even steal as she did now, or perhaps she’d catch an infection in her hands, Kestrel wasn’t sure she would’ve survived if she hadn’t met her friend that second month.

 

The woman she’d met was much older than Kestrel, perhaps in her forties. Kestrel had never thought to ask how old she was or even her name, just as the woman had never thought to ask about her hands when she’d fixed Kestrel up better than the job she’d done herself. It was how she knew the woman had once been a nurse. Kestrel had never asked the woman how she ended up in the alley-slash-abandoned restaurant they’d lived in now.

 

In fact, they rarely even spoke, except for the first time when the woman said to Kestrel, “ _Whoever did this to you doesn’t deserve anything from you.”_

 

And Kestrel had responded, “ _It was my fault._ ”

 

After that, the only time the woman said anything to her was when she was telling Kestrel she wouldn’t return for some time just so Kestrel wouldn’t have to worry, and so that she’d understand that she’d have to fend for herself.

 

That was how they’d worked. The woman would feed Kestrel half of whatever she’d stolen that day, she’d teach Kestrel how to blend in, how to pickpocket, and some self defense moves. Once she’d been able to use her hands at least little bit, Kestrel would do the same. They split money, food, clothes—which reminded Kestrel that she had to get some warmer clothes. An autumn breeze tickled her skin as if in agreement.

 

Last month, the woman had told her she’d be leaving and wouldn’t return for a while again. That was the night Kestrel had made her mistake.

 

She’d already been feeling on edge, having the woman gone. When she unconsciously passed the music store that she had painstakingly tried to avoid any time she went hunting, when she saw the piano through the glass, she’d frozen up.

 

That night had came back in full force as if she’d still been there.

 

So Kestrel knew that she shouldn’t have tried anything with the guy she’d been hunting. She’d almost left him alone. Her hands had been shaking, and paired with her fingers that hadn’t really healed properly (and still hurt her slightly) even with the woman’s help, Kestrel knew she should’ve just walked away.

 

But she’d seen his nice—very expensive—car and she was on her own for now. Plus, she had been hungry and the smells from the diner were calling her name.

 

Then she’d been caught. _And_ she’d nearly led him to her little hole-in-the-wall home. What had she been thinking?

 

He’d still given her money. A lot of it, too. She’d saved some for later and used some to buy food. None of that would matter if he brought the cops to her, though. She didn’t trust that he wouldn’t even a full month later.

 

Kestrel climbed onto the roof of her abandoned restaurant home to scope out her next target. It was something she did every night, even if she didn’t follow through with her pickpocketing. It had replaced her old nightly routine, and it was something for her to do. She could get a job now, she supposed. Get a real place to live, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about how to survive the winter.

 

But she was enjoying her freedom too much. She wanted a few more months to herself.

 

A car caught her eye as it drove by slowly. It was very nice, and very expensive. The guy from the month before flashed in her mind again. His eyes in particular held her thoughts. Gray. A gray so sharp she’d thought he would spilt her in two just by looking at her. And so, so full of sadness and anger and _hurt_ that it sang to her own pain.

 

She thought of his hands, how his callused fingers scraped against her skin. She’d frozen up both times, a stupid move on her part. But what else could she do, when all she could think about the moment he’d gripped her arm was _that night_? When she had been terrified that he’d do to her what happened to most women who lived alone on the streets? And what was that spark she’d felt when she’d brushed against his fingers while taking the money? Static electricity?

 

And then the timbre of his voice—she huffed out a breath, muttering curses to every god she could name—had rattled _something_ inside of her. Something that made her fingers twitch. Something that she’d shoved down, deep, deep down and vowed to never, ever bring up again. She’d dreamed of that voice.

 

It didn’t help that he wasn’t… unpleasing to look at.

 

That thought made Kestrel wonder if she should’ve bashed his head on the wall. Just enough for him to forget her.

 

The car passed again.

 

She wondered if that was him, trying to find her to turn her in. She wondered if the fluttering in her stomach meant that she was hungry or if the thought of seeing him again, of hearing his voice again, even if it meant she’d go to jail, made that happen.

 

The car had passed again, and with it came a rattling from the alleyway that made Kestrel instantly alert. She leaned over the edge of the roof to peer down, only to find a figure running away. He was clutching something tightly to his chest, but Kestrel couldn’t see what it was.

 

“Hmm,” she hummed to herself, turning her eyes back to the street. She waited on the roof and saw the car pass twice more. “Hmm,” she hummed.

 

It had been a while since Kestrel had felt them, but the alarm bells were ringing in her head again.

 

***

 

Kestrel didn’t always do her hunting at night. In fact, it was much easier to pickpocket during the day when there were larger crowds to shield her and when she could properly see. She could also hit multiple targets easily. It also meant, however, that even if she could use the crowds to her advantage, there was a greater chance of someone catching her since she didn’t have the cover of darkness on her side.

 

It had been surprisingly busy all morning, and now it was lunch hour. It would’ve been the perfect time for Kestrel to swap a few wallets with some similar weighing rocks, but the alarm bells from the night before had still been ringing when she woke up, throwing her off balance. She hadn’t listened to them before, but she’d listen to them now.

 

It didn’t help that she felt like the back of her neck was being pricked as if it were a pin cushion. Yet no matter how many times Kestrel checked over her shoulder, she saw no one suspicious. Just the lucky saps that got to keep their wallets.

 

_Something is wrong. Something isn’t right._

 

Kestrel didn’t like that she didn’t know. She didn’t like that just two weeks ago she had begun to feel helpless again. Like she’d needed to start checking over her shoulder again, checking her areas again, as she so often did back home.

 

No, that wasn’t her home anymore. It hadn’t been from the start perhaps. She needed to remember that. _Whoever did this to you doesn’t deserve anything from you._ She had to remember that, too.

 

She wove through a throng of people, her hands automatically reaching for pockets. She curled them into fists at her side. She had to be careful. She was clearly being watched, and that was something Kestrel hated. _She_ was the one who did the watching. _She_ was the shadow people didn’t know they had.

 

She especially hated not knowing who trailed her. Was it someone her father had sent? Was it someone Gray Eyes had sent against his word? Was it someone else entirely?

 

Kestrel stopped in front of the tailor’s shop. She tilted her head, making it seem as if she were contemplating the dress displayed in the window. For a moment, it _did_ capture her attention. It was a lovely shade of lilac so light it was almost… gray.

 

She frowned, focusing her gaze to see the reflections in the window rather than what lay inside it. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Not at first. It wasn’t until Kestrel saw someone from the corner of her eye break away from the crowd that was walking toward her and cross the street. In the window, she saw him slow once he reached the sidewalk. He had a camera hanging around his neck, but instead of it just dangling against his chest, he held it in his hands. He looked both ways and then straight at her before making it seem as though he were stretching. The camera was lifted along with his stretch. A quick flash and then it was down and he was moving again.

 

_What on earth?_

 

Deliah, the tailor, tapped on the window, shaking Kestrel from her stupor. Deliah frowned at her, but Kestrel smiled, waved, and mouthed an apology before heading back the way she came—away from the man with the camera.

 

_Something isn’t right._

 

Quite a few somethings hadn’t been right in Kestrel’s life since the day she was born. She didn’t need anything else added to the list. She hated knowing that someone had a picture of her, or rather _pictures_ (she didn’t know if he had more than just the one she’d seen him take), on their camera. What was he doing with it? Why did he want it? Why _her_?

 

Her skin was crawling. She wished she could take a long, scalding shower, but the only option she had was a quick rinse in the diner’s restroom. Her stomach was turning.

 

_Something isn’t right._

 

Truly, Kestrel should’ve been paying more attention. Especially now that she knew there was a man going around, sneaking pictures of her. Instead, her mind had drifted back to that time when the alarm bells had went off for the first time. Back to when she hadn’t understood, and couldn’t do anything about it. She may have understood them now, but she didn’t know what to do about this, though.

 

It was right then, when she was wondering just how she could ensnare the camera man to take hold of the camera and smash it to bits, that she ran smack into a very large, hard body. She tumbled to the ground, landing on one of her hands. Pain shot through her fingers, tingling up her arm.

 

She hissed, cradling her hand. She flexed her fingers, wincing at the pain that lashed through the stiff ones that only curled halfway now. They were swelling up. She’d have to find a way to ice them and then splint them.

 

“Are you okay?” asked the roadblock.

 

Kestrel immediately stiffened. She eyed the person’s shoes, pants, up and up and up her eyes traveled until she felt go mouth go dry. He was smiling, and Kestrel was sure that if she hadn’t been on the ground right then, she would’ve ended up there anyway.

 

He definitely wasn’t unpleasing to look at.

 

She felt the rattling deep in her bones. In her aching fingers that yearned to find the exact keys that could make the perfect coupling for his voice.

 

“It’s you,” Gray Eyes said. “I was beginning to think I’d dreamed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a struggle and it was originally much longer, but i decided to split it. so technically this is part one and chapter 7 is part two. (i might come back and rewrite it one day, either from arin's pov or both of theirs and update it to my liking 🙈)


	7. 7.

Arin hadn’t planned on seeking her out. Truly, he hadn’t.

 

He’d been on his way to meet with a realtor about selling his old house, when he found himself passing by the area he’d met the girl. Then he’d realized he’d forgotten to eat, and it was a nice day out, so he’d parked his car and decided to walk to the diner he hadn’t been able to eat at last time.

 

He definitely wasn’t thinking about possibly running into her again.

 

Even last night, he’d just needed some air before he found himself driving around the area. But it was only because he needed air, that was all.

 

Except, even if he didn’t plan it, he did run into her. Literally.

 

And then he invited her to lunch.

 

He could only imagine what Sarsine would think if he’d told her that he took the girl who’d tried to steal from him to lunch. That he hadn’t reported her to the cops (and never planned to), or that he hadn’t truly been able to not think about her since then.

 

It was creepy, Arin had to admit to himself. Especially when he mostly thought about her hands and the star shaped freckle she had on one of them. He just couldn’t fight the feeling that they didn’t belong sneaking into other people’s pockets. And when he thought about how frightened she was, or about how she’d nearly cried, he couldn’t fight the concern he felt.

 

It wasn’t any of his business, though. He should’ve left it alone, but it was too late.

 

The waitress had just left them, sitting across from one another at the diner in silence. The girl was icing one of her hands beneath the table as she stared out the window.

 

He cleared his throat. “How’s your hand?”

 

The girl glanced down as she removed it from the ice. She wiggled her fingers, wincing only slightly. “Fine,” she said without looking at him. Her gaze turned back to the window.

 

Arin could feel her leg bouncing beneath the table.

 

“Why am I here?” She blurted, finally. She turned to him. “Why are _you_ here?”

 

If Arin had an answer to that, he probably wouldn’t be sitting across from her. At least that’s what he thought. Maybe he still would be.

 

Arin said nothing as he studied her. She fidgeted quite a bit, shifting nearer and nearer to the edge of the booth. As if she were getting ready to bolt for it.

 

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. Though he was telling the truth, the girl’s brows furrowed skeptically.

 

“And, as you can see, I’m fine.” Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Unless you mean to report me?”

 

_Ah, that’s what she thought it was._ “No.”

 

“Well then, why—”

 

The waitress returned with their food. She asked the girl if she needed more ice, who shook her head. The waitress winked at the girl, casting a longing look to Arin—her fourth since he’d walked in—before walking away.

 

“I don’t know,” he told her before she could ask him again. He wasn’t lying about that, either, and she seemed to believe it more than his previous answer.

 

They ate in silence, watching each other. He liked that she didn’t cower from his gaze. It probably helped that she didn’t seem to know who he was. More than once, he caught himself staring at her hand that gripped her fork. A couple of her fingers were stiff, and couldn’t curl properly so she had to use her palm to hold it in place the way a child might when they’re first learning to eat or write.

 

When she would get tired with using one hand, she’d switch to the other. He noticed that both her hands were this way and it made him wonder what happened to her.

 

He wanted to ask, but she had no reason to tell him. And he didn’t want to be rude.

 

“What is your name?” She asked him.

 

She really didn’t know who he was. Arin didn’t know whether he should feel relieved that she didn’t or insulted. True, he’d only been around for about a year, he wasn’t so ignorant to how quickly he’d risen to fame. (Or how quickly he’d fallen, too.) He wasn’t being cocky, he was being honest.

 

It meant that she hadn’t targeted him because he was famous. And Arin liked that—him being seen as a stranger rather than a celebrity. He wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

 

“Smith,” he answered.

 

She didn’t look like she believed him, but she didn’t question him.

 

“What yours?”

 

She paused, frowning at him slightly. “Enai,” she said softly.

 

It was Arin’s turn to narrow his eyes. “That isn’t your name.”

 

“Yes, it is,” she said. Louder. Harsher.

 

Arin sat back, folding his arms across his chest. His lips twitched when she did the same, except she also brought her knees to her chest. “Enai is a very traditional Herrani name. It’s so traditional, it’s barely even used anymore. And Herrani you are not.”

 

The girl, _Enai_ , rolled her eyes. “I didn’t question you when you said your name is Smith. Where did you even get that? Were you a smith in your past life?”

 

He couldn’t fight the snort that escaped from him. He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”

 

_Enai_ stared at him blankly, her cheeks lightly flushed. Her fingers tapped at her thighs.

 

A flash of light from the corner of his eye caught their attention. They both turned to the window where there was another flash of light.

 

_Shit._ “Shit,” he cursed, leaning over to pull the shades down. Then he stood and pulled them down at the surrounding tables.

 

When he sat down, he’d noticed _Enai_ had turned incredibly pale.

 

“Enai, are you alright?”

 

But she was miles away, lost in her own mind. Her hands curled and uncurled. She held them to her chest.

 

“Why is he after me?” She groaned.

 

Arin stiffened. “Why do you think he’s after you?” His question seemed to snap her from her reverie.

 

“What?”

 

She had been talking to herself, then. She’d likely forgotten he was there.

 

“Oh.” She shook her head. “It’s just… He took my picture earlier today. And I think,” she paused, licking her lips. Then she took a sip of her drink. “I think he’s been following me for a few weeks now.”

 

That unsettled him, and she frowned as if she could see that it did. He could see that her hands were trembling softly.

 

If she had a pap following her, then it was likely that he had been following Arin first. For quite some time. He wondered if he was the same one who was hiding in the bushes at his old house.

 

Sarsine hadn’t told him about any of the gossip related to him, so Arin could only assume that the pap hadn’t done anything with the pictures yet. Or he hadn’t found anything worthwhile. Until now.

 

Either way, _Enai_ wasn’t safe anymore. He glanced at her hands. If she had truly ever been. At least, she wasn’t safe from the media. Because of him.

 

_He should’ve been there._

 

But he hadn’t been. He could be now.

 

“It’s not about you,” he said to her. “It’s about me.”

 

_Enai_ blinked at him. “Are you famous?”

 

He grimaced. “Something like that.”

 

Silence settled over them. _Enai_ rested her chin on her knees. Her fingers were tapping again. He thought of the dream he’d had when they first met. He had to fix it.

 

Arin didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t know why that would even be the first thing he thought of. But once the words were out of his mouth, he could only agree with the trueness of them.

 

“I think you should come live with me.”

 

***

 

There were many times when Kestrel wondered how she’d gotten to where she was.

 

How had she come to live on the streets? That was easy. Her father nearly shattered her fingers and kicked her out.

 

How had she come to have such a father? That one wasn’t so easy. She was still figuring that out. She had at least half of the answer, though. Her father and mother procreated. She happened to be the lucky chosen egg.

 

How had she come to sit across Gray Eyes— _Smith_ —at the diner? She should’ve had an answer to that. Truly, she should have one. But for all the scrambling she did in her brain, she couldn’t think of one reason why she was sitting across from him, staring at him in shock while she had one of her hands in a glass full of ice.

 

“What?”

 

He cleared his throat, and said, louder as if she hadn’t heard him the first time he’d said it, “I think you should come live with me.”

 

Something bubbled within Kestrel. It was a feeling so foreign, she’d almost forgotten that it was something she could do. It rose from the depths of her belly, warming her from her head to her toes.

 

Kestrel laughed. True _, pure_ laughter. She laughed until her ribs ached, and the tears of sadness that had threatened to fall, fell as tears of laughter. She had no doubt that people were staring at her, and for once she didn’t care.

 

“What?” She asked him again, wiping the tears from her eyes. “ _What?_ Are you out of your mind?”

 

_Smith_ was frowning at her, but his grey eyes sparkled with amusement. It unnerved her, brought her back down to earth. “I’m glad you find this so amusing,” he said.

 

A few more giggles escaped Kestrel’s lips before she contained herself, taking a sip of her drink. “Because you’re out of your mind.”

 

“I’m trying to help you. If one pap is following you, more will be sure to follow.”

 

“By inviting me to your house?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did you forget the pickpocketing thing?”

 

_Smith_ glared at her. “No, I did _not_ forget the _pickpocketing thing_. My place has security, making it the safest place for you to be from paparazzi.”

 

Kestrel shook her head, setting her legs on the ground again. She leaned against the booth. “I’m not moving in with you.”

 

“But—”

 

“No,” she said, firmly. “I’ll figure out what I’m going to do. Right now, it’s just the one and he doesn’t seem to know where I live yet. Push comes to shove, I’ll have to leave.”

 

“Where _do_ you live? I could hire bodyguards.”

 

Kestrel ignored him as she continued, “Besides, I don’t know you. I’m not going anywhere with you alone.” He snorted, and she just knew he’d point out that she came with him to the diner. But they weren’t exactly alone. It was her turn to glare, curling her hands into fists, adding, “You don’t know me, either. How do you know I wouldn’t kill you in your sleep? I did try to steal from you.”

 

“You _tried_ , Little Fists,” he said with a laugh. “But you _failed_ to steal from me. I doubt you’d succeed in my murder.”

 

She flushed. _Little Fists_.

 

_Smith_ reached for a napkin, then he pulled a pen from his pocket.

 

“Do you always carry a pen in your pocket?” She blurted. It reminded her of when she was in school, and would write notes on the back of her notebook in the middle of class.

 

He shrugged as he scrawled numbers on the paper. “Old habits die hard.”

 

She wanted to know what habits he meant, but it she’d never actually ask. He had his secrets, she had hers, just as the people around them had theirs. And they were strangers, after all. She’d never see him after this, and eventually they would forget about each other.

 

He reached into his pocket a second time to pull out his wallet. He removed some money and set it on the napkin before sliding it across the table to her. She rose a brow at him as she lifted the money in question, reading the phone number he’d written down.

 

“I’ve got to go,” _Smith_ said, standing from the booth and slipping his wallet back into his pocket. “You can keep whatever they don’t charge you.”

 

Kestrel held up the number. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

 

“Think of it as your emergency line. Call me if you ever need anything.” The corners of his lips twitched at her questioning gaze. “If you happen to find a phone in someone’s pocket.”

 

She scowled, nearly dunking the napkin into his water when his face grew serious.

 

“I mean it,” he said. “If you find yourself caught in a sea of cameras, don’t hesitate to call me.”

 

Kestrel wouldn’t, even if she was swarmed with paparazzi. She’d likely throw his number away and it would be the end of this… whatever it was.

 

He seemed to know that, to read it on her face. “Just… Be careful.” And he walked away.

 

Later, she would wonder what made her follow him. Had it been his concern for her? Had it been because, deep down, she was incredibly lonely and wanted just a few more moments to feel like a normal girl, with a loving family and a beautiful home, on a little date? Had it been because she wanted one last look at his gray eyes—full of the same sadness, loneliness, and anger she had—that she couldn’t quite shake from her mind, and one last listen to his voice that had called up the dead thing within her?

 

She didn’t have an answer for why she left one of the bills he’d left on the table and shoved the rest of the money and his number into her pocket to chase after him.

 

“Wait,” she said, placing a hand on his arm to stop him before he could get any further. “I’m Kestrel.”

 

He stared at her hand on his arm briefly before he took it into his. She froze, wanting to snatch her hand away. But he brushed his thumb on her birthmark softly, almost tenderly, making her throat very dry. He lifted his gray eyes to her, cutting her piece by piece as if he were carving her open to learn all her secrets.

 

He shook her hand, grinning, “I’m Arin.”

 

***

 

When Arin got home that night, he charged into his bedroom and immediately flopped onto his bed. He’d known sleeping in and going to bed when he felt like it would come around to bite him in the ass, but he also couldn’t bring himself to care much.

 

He wiggled out of his clothes and tossed them to the floor.

 

His meeting with the realtor was… Draining to say the least. It wasn’t supposed to take as long as it did, but the agent was a fan of his, and refused to let him go.

 

He knew he should’ve cancelled. It had been on complete impulse that he’d called them at all. He just wanted to know how much the house was worth, how much his family had been worth to people.

 

Or maybe to himself.

 

Sarsine didn’t know how often he thought of the words she’d spat at him in anger a month before, and he’d never tell her. She had been right. Arin was spoiled, and without his family, perhaps it meant that he was nothing.

 

He’d call the realtor in the morning and cancel everything. He wasn’t ready to sell the house just yet.

 

His phone buzzed, grabbing his attention. A number he didn’t recognize was calling him. He let it go to voicemail. From time to time, he’d receive calls from different journalists for interviews. Calls he used to answer, thinking it could be something important as he’d made it a habit of doing since… But he’d learned better.

 

The screen lit up with the number a second time. That was odd. Reporters never called twice in a row.

 

Then Kestrel’s face filled his mind. Her golden hair, her light brown—nearly golden—eyes. The way she held her head high, even when she was embarrassed or upset. He’d nearly forgotten he’d given her his number.

 

“Hello?” Arin answered.

 

“Is this Arin?” The voice on the other line croaked. Arin jolted from his bed, scrambling to put his clothes on.

 

“Kestrel?”

 

“Arin, can you pick me up? I’m at the diner.”

 

“Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally this was all in kestrel's pov because i had split it from chapter 6, but it just wasn't working in her pov only. so if you've seen the note from the previous chapter and get to this one, don't worry, you're not missing anything.
> 
> idk i think i like this method. what do you think?


	8. 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's filler, but it's important filler*

Kestrel stared at the ceiling, confused. It wasn’t the hole riddled, slightly moldy, and watermarked one of the abandoned restaurant.

 

She sat up, her hands spreading through the soft blankets that covered her. She poked at the mattress beneath her. Her eyes studied the bedroom that was not her old one, and was most definitely not the blanket pile she’d had. The room was only filled with a bed, two night stands with two lamps, and a sofa chair in one corner. The only kind of decoration were the curtains and the circular rug. There was a doorway leading to a closet was slightly bigger than the room itself, and a doorway leading to the bathroom.

 

Arin had given her the master suite.

 

_Right_.

 

Kestrel remembered that she lived with him now. For two weeks. She wondered when she would get used to living with him. Not that it mattered, really, because she was only here to be away from the paparazzi that had been following her. Once he gave up, Kestrel was sure she’d be back on the streets.

 

Her stomach turned.

 

She hadn’t meant to keep Arin’s number, she’d planned on tossing it the minute she was alone. But she liked his handwriting, and she wanted to pretend for just a moment, so she’d saved it in her pocket. When she was burritoed in her blanket pile, she’d pulled it out to trace the indentations of each number. As she did, she’d imagined a different life. In it, her mother was alive, and her father loved her. She was a world renowned pianist set for her first ever concert. Arin would be there. He’d meet her backstage when she was done to congratulate her, and then…

 

She hadn’t let herself get past that. Or rather, she didn’t get past that because she’d been interrupted by the clanging sound of the chairs she’d used to block the back entrance in as she and the woman had a habit of doing, and a curse that rang out through the darkness. Kestrel had immediately known it wasn’t the woman. She wouldn’t have come through that way, knowing it was barricaded.

 

Kestrel’s heart nearly stopped as she thought of her father, kicking his way in to get to her, though she logically knew that it was the pap that had been following her for weeks. He’d been the one in the alley the night.

 

The chairs were scraping against the floor as the pap tried to make his way in. Her heart pounded in her chest as Kestrel leaped up and ran to the front entrance. Her and the woman left it locked because it had a few boards blocking the door, and having to crouch would’ve been a hassle. Not to mention the fact that people would be able to see them coming and going and possibly report them. The back entrance was always better.

 

But the front was all she’d had. She’d unlocked the door, and just as a flash lit up the room, she’d crouched and wiggled out. The pap shouted for her to come back, another flash of his camera going off, but she had already been running through the street and to the diner, where she’d called Arin.

 

The car ride to his place was silent. She was grateful that he hadn’t asked her what happened. She didn’t think she’d been able to tell him. Especially after she walked through the threshold of the condo and saw the grand piano that was identical to her mother’s. The only difference was Arin’s was white where her mother’s was black, and this one didn’t have a lid.

 

She’d nearly walked back out. Paparazzi be damned, she’d rather take that than have to see the piano every day for who knew how long.

 

Whether Arin noticed how her breath had hitched or how skittish she’d seemed, he made no comment. He simply showed her the room, showed her how to work the shower, and given her some extra clothes he had on hand until he could take her shopping for her own (which they’d down two days later. Arin had taken her to the mall at first, but upon her insistence, had taken her to the nearest super center where she made friends with the clearance rack. She’d made sure not to buy too much so she wouldn’t go over a certain limit and because she’d have to leave eventually, so there was no point in getting so many clothes when she would have nowhere to store them).

 

She’d bathed more in her tears than the actual shower. She’d cried the way she had when her father kicked her out, and ten times worse. Then she dried herself off, put on the too big clothes Arin had given her, and dove into the bed. She’d pulled the blankets over her head and slept.

 

The next day, when Kestrel wasn’t as shaken up, Arin had asked her what happened. She’d told him, and he promised that he’d take of it. She believed him. He’d given her a proper tour of the house then. Not that there was much to tour—it was an open layout—but she appreciated knowing there was a laundry room off the kitchen and an office where he had shelves and shelves of books.

 

Kestrel slid from the bed, not bothering to make it as she made her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face.

 

Guilt gnawed at her every time she used something in the house. She didn’t know how she’d be able to pay Arin back for helping her. She’d offered herself as payment—after all, who brought home a girl from the streets with no expectations?—but Arin, horrified, had turned her down. He’d told her he wasn’t expecting anything back from her, just her safety because it was his fault she was in this position in the first place.

 

She scrubbed at her teeth harder. She had to disagree. It was _her_ fault. It was always her fault.

 

As she finished up, making her way to the closet, she couldn’t help but feel like it was one big joke. She could’ve given him the money he’d given her back as payment, or paid for her things herself. But she’d lost that money just like she had when her father kicked her out. It was as if she was being punished for being a thief.

 

For stealing her father’s money and time on the piano. For stealing from people’s pockets. For stealing—well, trying to steal—from Arin. For stealing her mother’s life.

 

Kestrel clenched her jaw, shutting her eyes tightly to keep her tears at bay. She got dressed, went back to the room to make the bed, then took a deep, steadying breath before heading for the kitchen.

 

“It’s fine,” she said to herself. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

 

Maybe one day she’d actually believe it.

 

***

 

Living with Arin was… not unpleasant.

 

It was different from living with her father, who was never home, so she’d essentially lived on her own. And there was the lovely fact that Arin didn’t hit her or make her fear living. It was different from living with the woman, who came and went as she pleased, leaving Kestrel on her own, too. And she and the woman never spoke much at all.

 

She and Arin spoke all the time, though. Or sometimes they shared a comfortable silence while they both read.

 

She learned that he had a cousin, whom he was close with, but hadn’t told her about Kestrel yet. She learned that he had a sister, but that she’d died along with his parents in a car crash. She learned that he didn’t work, or if he did she didn’t know about it. She still didn’t know what he was famous for, but whenever she asked, he’d change the subject. She learned that sometimes, when he was really focusing on something, he’d hum or sing under his breath. Then he’d catch himself and stop. She deduced that he had to have been an artist, perhaps in a band or something.

 

She loved his voice. She wanted more.

 

“Will I ever hear you sing?” she’d asked him one day, looking up from her spot on the floor of the office-library as she set a bookmark to mark her place in the book she’d been reading, but not really reading.

 

Arin, sitting at the desk, had peered down at her with an eyebrow raised.

 

“I hear you singing sometimes, but it’s always too low to really hear what you’re singing.”

 

He’d held his place in his book with his finger as he leaned back in his chair. “That depends,” he’d said. A corner of his mouth hitched slightly. “Will I ever hear you play?”

 

Kestrel had blanched at that. She’d blinked at him. Once. Twice. Three times. Her mouth opened and closed, but she forgot how to use words. So she said nothing. Instead, she shut her book, turned so that she lay toward the door instead of toward Arin, and continued reading.

 

She’d ignored the chuckle from behind her.

 

***

 

As autumn turned to winter, Kestrel came to know more about Arin. Like how he didn’t know how to cook to save his life, and neither did she, so they often ate out or ordered in. When she’d asked him how he’d survived this long, he’d simply said that he lives off his cousin’s food and before that, his mother’s.

 

Kestrel made a note to learn how to cook. Her living situation may be temporary, but she was getting bored of eating out, and she didn’t want her debt to Arin to keep raking up. She’d pay him back even if she had to rob a bank to do it.

 

It was one thing to steal, that was her choice. Something she did on her own. It was another think to be taken care of without being seen as a bother. It made her uncomfortable, and she often felt the opposite of not a burden.

 

She knew that he had the piano, but playing wasn’t his skill, and that at that point, it was pure decoration.

 

She knew that he often went to visit his cousin, and still hadn’t told her about Kestrel despite her living with him for two months. One night, as they watched a movie on his laptop, Kestrel had asked him why.

 

“She’s going to kill me,” he’d said with a shudder.

 

Kestrel snorted. “You’re afraid _she’s_ going to kill you, but not _me,_ a stranger?”

 

“If you wanted me dead,” Arin had stroked at her birthmark, “I’m sure you would’ve done so by now, Little Fists.”

 

Her throat went dry. Her heart galloped. She’d stood and offered him a goodnight before heading to her room.

 

As she’d lain in bed, she chanted into her pillow, over and over, that this was temporary. That she was nothing, had never been anything, and would never deserve anything. That she was only a thief who ruined everything in her path.

 

***

 

Sometimes Arin had to attend to his business. That was exactly how he said it, which made it seem shady.

 

Perhaps Kestrel had been wrong. Perhaps he hadn’t been in a band. Perhaps he was part of the mob and the so called pap was really someone who worked for him. Perhaps it was all part of an extensive plot to get her into his home before, trust him, and then sell her on the black market.

 

When he went out, so did Kestrel. She didn’t like staying in his house by herself. It reminded her of when she lived with her father. It made her feel lonely.

 

So, she used that time for going on walks if the weather allowed for it. She didn’t pickpocket—though the thought did cross her mind numerous times as she passed wealthy men and woman. It was much more difficult when people were bundled with coats and hurrying along to get somewhere warm.

 

Sometimes she felt the presence of the pap, but most times she didn’t. She had to assume he was getting bored of her.

 

It was during those walks when Kestrel realized how grateful she was for Arin giving her a place in his home. She didn’t think she’d have been able to survive winter in the abandoned restaurant. She’d wondered how the woman was faring. If she had returned at all while Kestrel was gone and if she had found the money Kestrel had left behind. She hoped she had and found a place that was warm and safe.

 

She thought of Jess, too. She missed her. Perhaps one day when she was brave enough, Kestrel would pay her a visit.

 

One night, Arin had already arrived by the time Kestrel had returned to the condo. She’d always entered with her eyes down, and only looked up to the kitchen or the living room.

 

A Bite and Sting set was laying in the center of the table in the living room.

 

“Do you play?” Arin asked her as she’d removed her winter clothing and tossed them in the coat closet along with her boots.

 

“Never against a person,” she answered, as blowing into her hands to warm her cheeks and nose. She’d sat on the couch, making sure her back was to the piano as she always did.

 

His gray eyes pierced through her as he studied her. He sat on the floor and picked out his tiles, so Kestrel did the same.

 

When she’d carefully picked her last tile, Arin asked, “What are we playing for?”

 

“I didn’t take you for a gambler.” Her theory about him being in the mob was gaining traction. Her fingers tapped against her thigh. Arin’s gaze flickered to her fingers, then back up to her face.

 

He flashed his teeth at her. Predator versus prey. “I’m not.”

 

“But you want something.”

 

“Yes,” he said as he scooted closer to her, and moved the rest of the tiles with him. “I want your truths.”

 

She’d stopped tapping her fingers. Her breath caught. The longer they’d stared at each other, the more her heart leapt into her into her throat. She cleared it. “Those are hardly high stakes for a game. What do I get out of it?”

 

He shrugged. He scooted closer, his knee brushing hers. “You have all of my truths, Kestrel.”

 

She tilted her head to the side. “ _All_ of them?”

 

“Most of them. Same thing.”

 

Kestrel glowered. “It is not.”

 

He laughed, and Kestrel couldn’t look at him, so she’d turned her eyes to the table, fidgeting with her tiles. “You know me better than anyone right now, Little Fists. What do you want?”

 

She didn’t know. She leveled him with her best glare, holding her chin high. “Are you trying to distract me? If you are, it isn’t working.”

 

“That’s beneath me.” He paused. It was his turn to divert his eyes to the table, to fidget with his tiles. “Do I distract you?”

 

_Yes_. _No._ Yes. But she’d said nothing. Instead, she played one of her tiles.

 

Playing against Arin was different than when she played on the computer. For one thing, Arin was a person. And for another, Arin was very, very good at it. Kestrel liked to think she was the best. Or maybe he was just giving it his all to win her truths.

 

Arin’s first question for her had been out of his mouth before he’d even lain his winning set down for her to see. “Why do you avoid the piano?”

 

“I don’t,” she’d said as she shuffled the tiles for the next round. She didn’t look at him.

 

“You make sure to sit facing away from it. You come in with your eyes to the floor. You scurry away when you have to pass it like if it was going to come to life and eat you.”

 

She frowned. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed any of it, but she should’ve known better than that. Arin was intuitive, like she was. It was why sometimes they knew things about each other, when no one else would have noticed. So, she knew it would be futile to try to tell him otherwise. He’d only ask again later.

 

Kestrel told him about her mother’s piano and how her father had destroyed it in a fit of drunken rage. She did not tell him why or that he’d broken her fingers. She suspected those questions would come soon enough.

 

They played long into the night and Kestrel lost every time.

 

_Why do you tap your fingers?_ She’d told him about her piano playing, though she was sure she was only confirming what he already knew. _Is that why you cradle your hands?_ Yes and no. _Why were you living on the streets? Why can’t you fully bend some of your fingers?_ She’d told him all of it. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. Anger radiated off him as they played another round. _What is your father’s name?_ She didn’t tell him, and he didn’t press her for it.

 

When it got to be too much for her, when her shoulders sagged and she pulled her knees to her chest, his questions changed. _What’s your favorite color?_ Gray, she’d blurted stupidly, but she didn’t take it back. _When is your birthday? Where did you go to school? What’s your favorite food? Favorite snack?_ He’d asked and asked and asked until she didn’t have anymore answers to give.

 

Kestrel wanted to kick him in his smug face as he put the tiles away. She hadn’t won a single round. She wanted to play until she did.

 

“I feel like I’ve just been hustled,” she told him with a yawn as she tilted her head back against the couch cushions. She’d been certain he was in the mob then.

 

Arin only breathed a laugh. “I never made you think I was a terrible player.”

 

“But you would have.” He didn’t deny it. “Cheat.”

 

“No,” he snorted as joined her on the floor again. “Cheat was someone I knew in high school. _He_ would’ve hustled you for everything you own and then some.”

 

They hadn’t said anything after that. Kestrel steadily drifted to sleep. She became slightly alert when she felt a tap on her leg.

 

“Go to bed, Kestrel.”

 

“Minute,” she breathed, slipping deeper into sleep.

 

Moments later, she felt arms slip beneath her and lift her to the air. She’d tried to wake enough to scramble away, but they’d pulled her closer. She heard murmuring against her ear, but couldn’t make out the words. It wasn’t the scent of alcohol that she’d smelled. It was the smell of dark, summer earth that had immediately relaxed her. Her face nestled in the crook of Arin’s neck. He stiffened.

 

“Goodnight,” he whispered as he placed her on the bed. She’d been too tired to answer back.

 

She hadn’t known if she’d dreamed it, but she could’ve sworn she felt lips at her temple just before she’d heard the door shut.

 

***

 

Kestrel wasn’t sure what time it was. She wasn’t sure of anything. Only that she had to get up and go before she forgot. Before her fingers stopped tapping what she’d dreamed. She hurried quietly to the grand piano.

 

It was only after she’d sat on the bench, only after her fingers touched the keys that she remembered why she stayed away from it.

 

The lid slammed against her fingers. She could feel them snapping. She could hear the crunch of bone and the keys slammed in a rigged harmony. She heard the cracks of the wood, felt the vibrations of wood smacking against wood.

 

Her breath lodged in her throat, her lungs seizing up. She stood from the bench, backing away. She shut her eyes tightly until white dots swam through her vision. She clenched her hands into fists, she cradled them to her chest.

 

But when she opened her eyes, the piano was whole. It was white. It didn’t have a lid. If she looked closely, she could see that it looked shiny, polished, as if it were brand new instead of something Arin owned for years. When she looked at her fingers, they were swollen or broken as they had been months ago.

 

Kestrel breathed deeply, struggling to catch her breath. To steady her trembling. Her cheeks felt tight and when she lifted her hands to them, they came away wet. She slipped back into her room.

 

“It’s fine,” she said to herself. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

 

Maybe one day she’d believe it. Maybe one day she’d get to play again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *said no one ever, probably.


	9. 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's filler, but it's important filler pt 2*

If there was anything more horrifying than spiders, it was Sarsine appearing at his front door when Arin still hadn’t told her about Kestrel.

 

He wasn’t ashamed of her by any means, he just didn’t know how to bring it up to his cousin. His cousin who would think the worst of the situation. His cousin who would probably grill Kestrel to hell and back, and still probably decide that she didn’t like her. His cousin who would make _his_ life a living hell by constantly reminding him of how stupidly reckless he could be.

 

But Arin didn’t think taking Kestrel in was reckless. Or stupid. He certainly didn’t regret it. He wouldn’t let Sarsine make him feel any different about it.

 

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Sarsine asked as she breezed into his home without his permission. “Is that my cousin standing in front of me? My cousin who barely visits me anymore, when he was at my house nearly every day?” She removed her coat and boots, shoving both in the closet without looking inside. “The one who also barely texts or calls me, even though he did that every day, too?”

 

“Sarsine,” Arin pulled her into a hug, kissing her cheek, “What brings you here?”

 

She shoved at him, making her way to the living room. “I’m checking up on you, you oaf. I can count on my hand the amount of times you’ve come to my house in the last two months. What are you up to?”

 

Arin could only hope that Kestrel stayed in her room until he told Sarsine about her. And have time to calm her down before they met, so Kestrel wasn’t met with animosity. She’d had enough of it in her life, she didn’t need anymore. Arin’s fists clenched at the thought of her father putting his hands on her. He didn’t want to know what he’d do if he knew who her father was.

 

Sarsine plopped on the couch. Arin followed her.

 

“Nothing,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He and Kestrel mostly spent time together reading, watching movies, and, recently, playing Bite and Sting for truths. He made her work for his. He liked when her face was serious, focused, determined. It was… cute.

 

Arin covered his mouth, faking a cough to hide the smile that threatened to bloom on his face.

 

“Nothing,” Sarsine mimicked. She sucked on her teeth, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

 

Arin avoided her gaze, tapping his knee to an imaginary beat. He heard Sarsine gasp softly. When he turned to her, her eyes were set on his tapping fingers. He stopped.

 

“Are you…” She smiled. Her eyes lit up with hope. “Are you writing again?” He must’ve looked as confused as felt because her smile fell off her face. “You just— You look good,” she said, thoughtfully. “Happy. The way you used to when you were working on something.”

 

Did he?

 

Arin realized that he hadn’t thought of his family in a while. Not since he’d told Kestrel about their death. At least not sadly. He found that he thought of his mother often. What she would’ve seen if she’d known Kestrel. If she would’ve liked her. What would Anireh think of her, too? Would she hate her? Give her a hard time as she’d given him?

 

Not that Arin had any plans to be more than what they were now. Just friends. Kestrel had made it clear that she had no intention of staying once that pap gave up on her—and it seemed as though he was—therefore had no reason to be in contact with Arin. And that was fine for him. It was great.

 

Even if he’d worry about her until it sickened him.

 

He was getting sick just thinking about it.

 

Besides, he needed a friend. Just a friend. Nothing else.

 

He realized that he hadn’t thought about The Incident, either. He hadn’t told Kestrel about it despite her knowing about his singing, and sooner or later he would have to. She knew him well enough by now, and picked up on so much that he wouldn’t be able to hide it from her. He thanked every god he could for the fact that she didn’t care much for the internet so she couldn’t look him up.

 

He shook his head at Sarsine, who blew out a long sigh. Even though she hadn’t said anything, Arin knew what she was thinking. She was always thinking it. But she hadn’t brought it up since their fight, and he knew she wasn’t likely to bring it up anymore. Not if it meant she’d lose him, too.

 

It was Arin’s turn to blow out a long sigh. He raked his hand through his hair, then slightly tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Sarsine,” he said, cautiously as if saying her name would would set off an alarm.She was instantly alert, sitting on the edge of the couch with her eyebrows furrowed. “I have to tell you something.”

 

Sarsine blinked. “Arin, you’re—” Her gaze drifted past him, her brows shooting up and her mouth parted in surprise.

 

“Oh.”

 

_Fuck_.

 

“Kestrel,” Arin said softly, nearly a whisper. He rolled his head to her.

 

He could feel Sarsine’s eyes searing through him, then off, then again. He saw her from the corner of his eye. Surprised. Skeptical. Then finally, she looked at him with slightly widened eyes.

 

Arin motioned for Kestrel to move closer. She stopped just at his legs. She didn’t sit down. Her nearly golden eyes focused on Sarsine with a similar look of skepticism and then something Arin couldn’t quite make out before she blinked it away.

 

She frowned, turning to him. “I didn’t know you had company.”

 

“Kestrel, this is my cousin Sarsine.” He glanced at his cousin. “Sarsine, this is Kestrel.”

 

Kestrel held out her hand. Sarsine scanned it, her gaze flickered back to him for a moment before she grabbed Kestrel’s hand and shook it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

Sarsine nodded in agreement, fixing her attention back on him with pursed lips when she dropped Kestrel’s hand. He knew she wanted to say something. She was probably bursting at the seams. Arin and Sarsine stared at each other.

 

Kestrel shifted, her hands balling into fists. “Um… I’m going to the store. We’re running low on a few things.” She bit the inside of her cheek as she looked at Sarsine once more with a frown, but her question was directed at him. “Do you— Um… Need anything specific?”

 

Arin took Kestrel’s hand. A slight shift and she was standing between his legs. She tensed slightly, then relaxed. She’d started tapping her fingers to her thighs, and he didn’t miss how Sarsine’s attention honed in on them. Or how she watched them in explosive silence, if silence could be explosive. “Can it wait until I can drive you? It’s pretty cold outside.”

 

“It could,” she said with a nod. Her mouth twitched. He curled his fingers with hers. “But I’m hungry, too. And all that we really have left are the charred leftovers from yesterday.”

 

The previous day Arin and Kestrel had attempted to make a recipe from a library book she’d borrowed. Well, Kestrel had attempted it. And it hadn’t been too bad. It was edible. Even if most of it was burnt.

 

_Practice_ , Kestrel had said. _It’ll come with practice_.

 

“Do you want anything?” She asked him again, then looked to Sarsine so that she knew the question extended to her too. His cousin shook her head.

 

“We’re good.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

 

“Okay,” she said, nodding again. She squeezed his hand in return. “Okay.”

 

Arin and Kestrel stared at each other. Kestrel with bemusement, for she knew what was coming for him once she left. Arin with pleading, wanting her to wait for him to take her, just so he wouldn’t be alone with Sarsine. She wouldn’t ream him in front of her. She was not his sister, who hadn’t given a damn about who was around.

 

Kestrel stepped away from him, releasing his hand. “I’ll be back soon.” She spared one last glance at Sarsine, nodding somewhat hesitantly in farewell, before heading for the door. Sarsine twisted in her seat to follow her trek out of the room, staring in her direction even as Kestrel bundled up.

 

She didn’t turn back to him until they heard the front door slam shut.

 

“Who was that?”

 

“That was Kestrel.”

 

Sarsine glowered at him. “I’m aware of her name. _Who is she_?”

 

Arin told her of how he and Kestrel met. He told her of the paparazzi. He told her some of Kestrel’s story. Not everything. That wasn’t his place or his story to tell, but he needed her to understand that, at least now, it wasn’t just about the paparazzi. Now, it was about keeping her safe, period. It was about helping her. He told her about how he’d been spending his time. He didn’t tell her everything they did, but just enough for her to know why he hadn’t been going over to her house as often.

 

Sarsine’s lips were pressed into a thin line. She said nothing as she leaned back against the couch, her arms folded over her chest. She inhaled. She exhaled. “You’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever known in my entire life,” she said, finally.

 

And then it began.

 

_How do you know she isn’t lying? That she isn’t a fan of yours, and is just using you for fame?_ He would know if she was lying to him. He didn’t know how, but he knew he would. Like he knew how she hated the color red. Or that oranges reminded her of her father and she’d stare dazedly while she trembled and cradled her fisted hands or her fingers tap, tap, tapped, so he’d stopped buying them. He didn’t tell her that, though. He simply told her that he believed Kestrel. _How do you know she won’t kill you?_ He tried to fight off a grin, but failed. _She’s too small,_ he’d told her, fully knowing she wouldn’t understand the inside joke.

 

_She could be a reporter. She could be selling bit and pieces of info right now. How do we know she didn’t know that pap?_

 

For every thing Sarsine threw at him, Arin had a response thrown back.

 

“Do you like her?”

 

“Of course,” he answered without hesitation. “She’s my friend.”

 

Sarsine rolled her eyes, her lips downturned. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

He heard the true question she wanted to ask: _is helping her all she’s here for?_ Arin didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t want to admit it to himself. They were just friends and she was leaving, perhaps once winter ended. She’d be gone. Like his family.

 

His cousin sighed. She leaned over, touched three fingers to the back of his hand, then patted his cheek, holding her hand there for a beat. “I believe in you, you hopeless fool. Just be careful.”

 

***

 

Arin had been confined to the living room. As if it really made a difference—he could still see the two of them huddled in the kitchen. Sarsine was overseeing Kestrel as she whipped something up. They didn’t speak much, and when they did it was in hushed tones that Arin couldn’t eavesdrop on.

 

He caught Kestrel’s eyes on him several times when Sarsine wasn’t paying attention. Each time he’d tilt his head, _what are you two up to?_ Each time she’d shake her head, biting her lip to fight a smile from overtaking her face. Then she’d turn her back to him.

 

Sometimes he caught Sarsine looking at him. She’d scowl at him for being a nosy body and go back to ignoring him. He wondered if she was telling Kestrel about The Incident, but he knew better than to think that way of Sarsine. She’d never cross that boundary with a stranger, and she knew Arin would want to be the one to tell her.

 

Later, when Sarsine had left—after she and Kestrel had shared a look that Arin couldn’t decipher—he challenged Kestrel to a game of Bite and Sting. She’d snorted when told her to bring out the tiles, understanding his intentions.

 

Kestrel, however, had gotten better at the game, and when it became clear that he wasn’t going to win against her that night, he asked her anyway.

 

“What did you and Sarsine talk about the whole time?”

 

Kestrel flashed him a conspiratorial grin. “It’s against the rules to ask questions when you haven’t won.” She set down her winning set. “Why do you want to know so badly?” she inquired.

 

Arin was the one who flashed a conspiratorial grin this time. “There are other ways of making people speak,” he said, moving closer to her. Kestrel’s brows furrowed. She backed away the closer he got until the couch trapped her. She pulled her knees to her chest.

 

She gulped. “Such as?”

 

He kneeled directly in front of her, leaning over her knees to place his arms on either side of her head. Their noses nearly touching. He could feel her warm breath tickle his lips.

 

Truthfully, Arin didn’t quite understand what had gotten into him. He just knew that he couldn’t handle the way his heart pulsed more and more each day. That there was something he had to know. And he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he liked seeing her face flush.

 

But Kestrel had seized up, her face paling slightly. She blinked furiously, sweeping away the haze that collected over her eyes. She cradled her hands to her chest. Arin immediately dropped his arms to the ground, his palms on floor just beside her hips, still leaning over her knees. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t so much as breathe on her. He wasn’t entirely sure he was breathing at all.

 

“Kestrel,” he said softly.

 

“Arin,” she responded, shakily. Her eyes flashed to his lips, then back up to his. For a brief moment, he was reminded of how she’d looked at him back in the alley when they’d first met. She was afraid. He didn’t know if it was of him, or if she was being reminded of her father.

 

He wondered if she could hear his chest cracking. If she could see all that he imagined differently for her. A life where she didn’t have to shield her hands. A life where she wasn’t afraid of what a touch could mean. A life where she was a pianist and loved the way she was supposed to be. The way anyone was supposed to be.

 

“Kestrel,” he said again. His lips hovered over her brow. “What are you and Sarsine up to?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

He wouldn’t have heard her if he wasn’t so close. He wouldn’t have seen her skin flush from her ears to beneath her shirt. He pressed his lips lightly, tentatively, to her brow. Her breath hitched. He pulled away and scooted back to his spot on the floor. He knew then.

 

Arin gathered up the tiles. “Do you know how to play Needles?”

 

A grumble—almost a growl—came from Kestrel. He rose his brow at her. She gaped at him in disbelief. Her light brown eyes flamed with… Anger? Excitement?

 

“You—” She licked her lips. His eyes flickered to them as she had done moments before. Her top lip curled slightly. “Are you always so—”

 

“Charming?”

 

Her flushed face darkened. She tapped at her knees. “I was going to say vexing.”

 

Arin smirked. She glowered.

 

“I’m going to bed.”

 

He laughed as her door shut. It was only six in the evening.

 

He tried not to think about how one day that door wouldn’t open anymore.

 

***

 

The next morning, Arin woke to his phone buzzing with a text message from a number he didn’t recognize. It was an invitation to lunch by Roshar, the newest it sensation Sarsine had told him about. He deleted it, making a mental note to change his number again so that reporters would stop bothering him. It wouldn’t matter much—they’d always somehow be able to reach him, but it would slow them down at least.

 

He threw on a shirt and some pants, brushed his teeth and went to the kitchen to make himself some tea.

 

His head throbbed. He hadn’t slept well. It had been months since he’d last dreamed of his family. That they were still alive. That he’d dreamed of their deaths. But it was different this time. Kestrel was in the car with them.

 

Bile rose to his throat.

 

Arin rubbed his temples, then poured himself a glass of water while he waited for his tea to cool. He took small sips to calm his nerves. He glanced at Kestrel’s door. Even if it was temporary, at least he knew she was safe.

 

His phone buzzed with another text, a bit more aggressive than the last. He deleted that one, too. Then he pulled up his browser to search for Roshar. The latest article was about a rumor going around that he had a tiger roaming about his massive, gated mansion. He pulled up more articles, then checked his website and one of his fansites.

 

He hadn’t heard Kestrel’s door open, but he felt her presence. He glanced up then back down and then…

 

Arin choked, nearly dropping his cup and phone. She was holding a laundry basket full of clothes, wearing one of his t-shirts. It was long enough that she’d had to knot it behind her to keep it in place, accentuating her curves. His throat went dry. Did his pants shrink? He wanted to ask how she’d gotten hold of it, but at that moment he didn’t particularly care to ask because one of the shoulders was hanging off.

 

Arin fought to keep his eyes to her face and not on her bare legs or the curve of her neck and shoulder. He took a long sip of his water—drinking it all as he leaned forward against the counter.

 

“I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed one of your shirts,” she said, mischief twinkling in her glorious eyes. “All of my things are dirty. I’ll wash it once I’m done.”

 

He wanted to tell her not to. He didn’t ever want to wash his shirt again.

 

“It’s… Ah…” he blew out a sigh. “It’s fine.” He scratched his neck, tugging slightly at the collar of his shirt. He raked his hand through his hair. It was much too hot in the kitchen, he decided. Maybe he would open a window, despite the frigid winter air outside.

 

She nodded, heading to the small laundry room off the kitchen. He didn’t miss the slight curve of her lips as she turned or how slowly she walked.

 

Arin shut his eyes, rubbing them with his fingers.

 

_Ah, so that’s how it’s going to be_.

 

He needed a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *said no one ever, probably pt 2
> 
> (and yes, i did turn needles into a game)


	10. 10.

The last time Arin had had so many cameras pointed in his direction had been during and after That Night and The Incident. Sure, there were a few stragglers here and there, but never as large as they had been. It unnerved him. Everything was louder and going at hundreds of miles per hour. He’d gotten used to the silence around him.

 

Though perhaps he was stroking his own ego too much. The paps hadn’t truly given a damn about him until the man that sat across from him strode into the restaurant fifteen minutes late. And then it was a field day.

 

Roshar and Arin, the current favorite of the public and the incest-murderer-has been (or whatever they were calling him) go to lunch. Arin could practically see the headlines speculating about their relationship. He didn’t particularly care about it, but it worried him. If rumors got out that he was Roshar’s new paramour, would the photos of Kestrel get out? So far the pap hadn’t done anything with them, but Arin was still on the lookout.

 

It had only taken a total of ten text messages that he’d deleted, and one phone call that he let go to voicemail before Arin agreed to go to lunch with Roshar. And even then, given how passive aggressive Roshar had been in the messages, he was half tempted to call back and decline.

 

But whatever Roshar wanted with Arin was _of utmost importance_ , he’d said. His _very life depended on it_.

 

Roshar had said that, but he sat across from Arin talking about nothing at all or flirting with their server.

 

“Roshar,” Arin said, trying to steer their conversation back. Despite everything, Roshar had sounded desperate. And Arin was agitated at the amount of cameras around. He tried hard not to fidget in his seat.

 

“Did you hear about—”

 

“Roshar.”

 

“Arin, I’m trying to tell you a story about—”

 

“Is it about what you said was important?”

 

Roshar shoved his fork in his mouth, chewing slowly. He’d done it on purpose if the smirk on his face at Arin’s glare said anything about it. He had a headache. Roshar had to have been the most irritating person Arin had ever met. That was saying something considering Arin had had to deal with his sister. If he were being honest, Roshar reminded him of her. If he were being more honest, it was the real reason why he decided to join him for lunch.

 

Arin frowned at the thought.

 

Roshar pointed his fork at him. “I take offense to your brooding, Arin. Truly. I’m a delight.” He waved his hand over himself. “I am the greatest person you will ever meet in your life, and yet here you are, trying to scurry away back to wherever it is you’ve been hiding.” He stabbed piece of his salad and shoved it in his mouth.

 

He changed his mind. Roshar was worse that Anireh had ever been.

 

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Roshar said, tsking at Arin’s expression and taking a sip of his wine. It was as if a switch went off, and the man he’d been sitting with changed to someone else. His smile vanished. His eyes darkened. He sat straighter, even as he sat back in his chair. He twirled the glass in his hand, inconspicuously tipping it in the direction of the window beside their table. “You’ve already been accused of murder once.”

 

Arin immediately knew he’d been duped. That Roshar’s fans were—that the whole world was—duped. The Roshar sitting in front of him, brimming with a certain power was the real Roshar. The one who’d set him up, Arin realized. The lunch was a trap. The table Roshar had chosen, the sheer amount of paparazzi outside, all of it was a trap. For what, he didn’t know.

 

Just as he was about stand to leave, Roshar huffed, matter-of-factly, “That’s your problem. You’re too transparent. It’s very easy to get under your skin.” The server came to fill Roshar’s nearly empty wine glass. Arin saw the switch again as Roshar smiled, eyeing the man head to toe and nearly sending the poor server into cardiac arrest for the third time that afternoon. He changed again, turning back to Arin. “You’re an easy mark.”

 

Arin sighed. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Roshar. What am I here for?”

 

“For a lesson. _Listen_ to what I’m telling you, stubborn ass. You can’t be this way in this industry.”

 

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not in the industry anymore.”

 

Roshar was silent. Thinking. He sucked on his teeth. “So you’re not even going to fight it?”

 

Arin said nothing, choosing that moment to take a few bites of his own food. Roshar’s eyes narrowed in response to his echoed ministrations of Roshar’s from moments before.

 

“I never took you to be a coward.”

 

Sarsine had said the same thing. And maybe he was. Or maybe he was just tired. He’d worked hard for his dream. He’d trusted those that supported him. He’d given his all, and they all turned their backs on him. _Oh._

 

“What do you want from me?” Arin asked.

 

“I want my rival back,” Roshar said, cutting into the meat on his plate. “Do you know how tiring it is competing with the talentless? How they even deign to compare me to them is straight up blasphemy. I’ve considered calling my lawyers several times.”

 

For a moment, Arin was stunned into silence. Then he couldn’t fight the laugh that came out of him. So it was trap to get him back into the media. It was a smart move, making him have lunch with the media’s favorite for publicity.

 

“You laugh, but it’s true. You were—are—the best, I will admit that. After all, it took your downfall for my rise.” Roshar leaned into the table. “I want a real fight, Arin.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

“Listen,” Roshar lowered his voice. “There was a gala a month ago. The night before I texted you, in fact.” He pause to glower at Arin. “Trajan was there. So was Lycian.”

 

Arin chewed on his food. “So?”

 

“I heard them talking about you, Arin. They didn’t know someone else was in the restroom with them. I heard them talking about money they’d taken from you and others, and about how they were planning on shutting Valoria Ent down soon before it was too late.”

 

Arin wasn’t so hungry anymore. In fact, he wanted to hurl right there on the table. Let Roshar make fun of him. Let him sulk over his ruined clothes for the press. He had to leave, but his body was leaden.

 

Roshar continued, “I’m pretty sure you were set up, Arin.”

 

He didn’t know what to say. What could anyone possibly say to that? He didn’t even know what think. For all he knew, Roshar could be lying to him. Hadn’t he made it clear that he wanted Arin to return from his indefinite hiatus for a game? Then again, Roshar didn’t seem like the type to waste his time on something if it weren’t important. He could’ve reached out to Arin long ago, but he hadn’t. Now he had this to bring to him.

 

“Why would they do something like that? Why me? It doesn’t make sense.”

 

Roshar rolled his eyes. A frustrated sigh escaped him. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? You’re an easy mark.” He nodded at Arin. “You wear that big heart of yours on your sleeve. I’ve seen your interviews, your performances, I’ve studied you.”

 

Arin couldn’t possibly see how that was a bad thing. If he couldn’t be himself, who could he be? If he didn’t practice what he’d preached in his songs, what would that make him? If he couldn’t be open with his fans then, if he couldn’t be honest with them, how would he expect them to listen to him, to support him?

 

He frowned. “That still doesn’t answer anything. Why would they need to take money from me and anyone else signed under them when they have enough of it?”

 

“That,” Roshar said with a shrug. “I don’t know. But it’s something _you_ need to find out.”

 

“They didn’t say anything else about it?”

 

Roshar shook his head, pushing a piece of soggy crouton onto a napkin before taking a bite of his salad. “They only mentioned his daughter and another client of Trajan’s, who isn’t too happy with him.”

 

Arin reached for his glass of water. “Lycian doesn’t have a daughter.”

 

“Not Lycian. Trajan’s daughter.”

 

He felt his face scrunch in confusion. “Trajan doesn’t have any kids.”

 

Roshar snorted, then the snorts turned to full blown laughter at Arin’s expression. “He was your manager and you didn’t know he had a daughter? I thought you were a fool, but not that big of one.” He wiped a few tears away. “Trajan has a daughter. Just the one. Cassie? Castiel? Something like that, I didn’t catch the name.”

 

A pit formed in Arin’s belly. It rose and rose until it settled into his throat.

 

Arin took a sip of his water. He took a bite of his food. He shrugged, looking anywhere but Roshar. “I didn’t care for him much. I was focused my career and my career only.” And look where that had gotten him.

 

“Anyway,” Roshar said, snapping lightly to bring Arin’s attention back to him. “It looks like they’re in some deep shit, and are trying to cover it up. So get off your ass and do something about it.”

 

“If there are others, why can’t they do it?”

 

“Because they’re not you. You made the headlines. You were the one who nearly ended up in prison. They picked on you and you disappeared like a coward. So they’ll never see you coming.” Roshar’s eyes glittered with deviousness.

 

A pap threw a pebble at the window. Roshar smiled at them, waving. He kicked Arin in his shin, so Arin did the same before returning to the rest of his meal. His food had gotten cold. He didn’t even want to finish. Roshar had began babbling about nothings again. Arin would think later, when he was alone. When Roshar wasn’t reading his reactions.

 

But there was one thing…

 

“Do you truly have a tiger?” Arin interrupted.

 

Roshar grinned, as if excited by the fact that Arin had asked him about himself—the topic he loved to speak about the most. Or that Arin wanted to get to know him. Arin could read people, too. And Roshar was lonely and in need of a friend.

 

“Yes,” he replied. “Do you want to know what I named him?”

 

Arin nodded, taking a sip of his drink. Roshar took a bite of his food, slowly pulling the fork from his mouth. He chewed just as slowly. Stalling again.

 

Finally, he tilted his head and smirked. “I named him Arin.”

 

Arin choked on his water.

 

***

 

It was on his way home that Arin had remembered something he’d long ago forgotten.

 

It had been the first and only time he’d ever visited Trajan’s office at Valoria Ent. He hadn’t hired Trajan as his manager yet, he was just getting a feel for him. He remembered his office being nearly bare except for the cabinets of files along one wall, his desk, a few bookshelves.

 

There weren’t any decorations to make it more inviting. Arin supposed that should’ve been his first warning at the kind of person Trajan was, but he was blinded by how successful his other clients were and he wanted him.

 

There was only one thing of personal note to Trajan. It was a picture frame, sitting on his desk at the very corner. It could’ve been easily knocked off at any given moment. In it was a picture of little girl with golden hair and eyes so light brown they were nearly gold themselves. She was staring off into the distance, one hand brushing a stray hair away and the other carrying a melting ice cream cone. If he looked closely enough—and he did—he’d see a little speck at the base of her thumb on one of her hands.

 

Arin parked his car, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel. That was impossible. It had to be impossible. But… Hadn’t he once thought Kestrel had seemed familiar to him?

 

_How do you know she isn’t lying? She could be selling bits and pieces of info right now._

 

Where _did_ Kestrel go when Arin wasn’t home? She often left when he did. Sometimes before, even. What was she doing? Had Sarsine been right, then?

 

_You’re an easy mark. You wear that big heart of yours on your sleeve._

 

Arin had thought he understood Roshar earlier, but he knew that he truly hadn’t until then. He’d taken Kestrel in to help her, but he hadn’t even thought to ask her about what she did. Still, what did he truly know about her? That she came from an abusive home? That she was raised by her nanny? He could list her favorites. He could read her body language and emotions.

 

But people were good at lying.

 

Hadn’t she kept her father’s name from him? Was it because she didn’t want to be caught as a spy?

 

He had to get home. He needed answers, and the only person who had them was the daughter of the man who possibly had a hand in destroying his life.

 

***

 

Kestrel tried not to make it a habit to dip into the money Arin was constantly giving her. She let it pile up in the only empty drawer he had in the kitchen. She didn’t need it. She had a roof over her head, food in her belly, and clothes on her back. It all belonged to Arin, of course, but she didn’t need to add to her debt to him.

 

But today was different. Today, Kestrel hopped onto a train to her old hometown.

 

She was feeling a little braver than she had ever been. She wanted to get a job, so she wouldn’t feel like she was mooching off Arin, and for that she needed her an ID. But for that, she needed her brith certificate. And her father was just a man. All she had to do was ask for what rightfully belonged to her. If he gave her a problem, she could always just leave. It wasn’t like he wanted her there anyway.

 

Maybe she’d even visit Jess if she was home.

 

No, she wasn’t ready for that conversation yet. Her father was one thing. Jess was another. In retrospect, Jess should’ve been the easier of the two, but Jess had been the only one she’d had after Enai was gone. They were closer and telling Jess would be harder than telling Arin. Especially since she’s only ever thought the best of Kestrel’s father. Arin didn’t know him—rather, Arin didn’t know Trajan’s facade.

 

As Kestrel worked her way out of the train station, she could feel her feet take control, feel herself slip back into her old routine of walking home after school. The closer she got to her father’s house, the more her courage ebbed.

 

She had to remember that he was just a man. She didn’t need to give him power over her even if he was her father. _Whoever did this to you doesn’t deserve anything from you._ She was eighteen. He couldn’t keep her there, and he couldn’t hurt her. Because if she didn’t return home, Arin would worry. He’d call the cops. Trajan would be caught. Eventually.

 

She could do it. She just needed her birth certificate. She didn’t have to stay for longer than that. She _wouldn’t_ stay for longer than that.

 

The minute she walked up to the gate, she checked the driveway only to find an unfamiliar car parked there. That was odd. She’d thought she would’ve had time to wait on the doorstep and think about what she’d say to Trajan.

 

Unless her father had taken a lover. Kestrel didn’t know if her father even dated. Then again, it wasn’t like they had family dinner at the table to chat about their day. She didn’t know a lot about her father.

 

The thought that he lived with a woman made her stomach swirl and her chest cave in. Had she been so easily replaced? Was he doing to her what he did to Kestrel? Could she help? It would be her fault if her father put his hands on someone again. She should’ve said something to someone. It would be her fault. Everything was always her fault.

 

Kestrel’s courage had thoroughly disintegrated. She speed walked back to the train station, keeping her head mostly down so she wouldn’t be recognized by anyone she knew. She couldn’t breathe. _Her fault, her fault, her fault._ She shouldn’t have taken the money. She shouldn’t have played the piano. She should’ve told someone.

 

“Kestrel?” A voice came from behind her.

 

She halted in place, nearly knocking into someone. Slowly, she turned on her heel, her brows shooting up. “Verex?”

 

The last time she’d seen Verex had been at one of the family events her father had rarely taken her to. She was the pawn he’d use to make himself look like the doting, single father everyone believed him to be. She and Verex would end up bored and leave the party together to do… well, nothing. Sometimes Verex would have a book on him, and they’d read together in a stairwell. He’d get irritated that she’d read quickly instead of savoring the details. Sometimes they’d just talk. Well, _he’d_ talk and Kestrel would avoid talking about herself.

 

Their fathers didn’t care. In fact, Kestrel thought they both hoped she and Verex would become an item. She knew her father certainly did. Imagine their disappointment when Verex started dating someone, who she guessed was the same someone that was currently standing beside him, holding his hand and eyeing Kestrel from head to toe, bored.

 

Except she didn’t have to imagine her father’s disappointment. He beat her the day he found out.

 

“Verex,” Kestrel croaked through her clogged throat. She cleared it, then smiled as brightly as she could. “Hey. It’s been a while.”

 

Verex hugged her with one arm. She hoped he didn’t notice her tense. She returned the hug awkwardly. He pointed to the girl beside him. “This is my girlfriend, Risha. I’ve told you about her before.”

 

Kestrel nodded at her in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

“Likewise,” Risha responded. She could see why Verex was so fixated on her. She was beautiful.

 

“How are you?” Verex asked. “Trajan didn’t tell us you were back.”

 

Kestrel’s brows furrowed. “Back? Back from where?”

 

Verex frowned. He rocked slightly on his heels. “He said you left. That he came home one day and you were gone. He’s been telling everyone to call him if they see you. My father asked why he didn’t call the cops, and Trajan said they wouldn’t help since you were technically eighteen.”

 

Kestrel’s stomach bottomed out. She clenched her hands, her jaw. She couldn’t feel her legs. She couldn’t feel her body. She was most definitely not breathing. She was pretty sure she was swaying.

 

Her father _did_ want her back. For what, she didn’t know, and she didn’t want to find out either. Unless it was all a farce—she wouldn’t put it past him. That was something she didn’t want to find out either. _He’d been waiting for her_.

 

Why she ever thought she was ready to go back, even if it was for just a moment, she didn’t know. He wasn’t just a man. He was her father. And he wanted her back. She had to get away.

 

It was Risha who placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her. Her eyes wide with understanding. As if she saw. As if she’d been through it, too. She squeezed Kestrel’s shoulder. She didn’t know who asked, “Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” Kestrel wheezed. “Fine. I have to—I have to go. I just remembered I have something to do. We’ll catch up later.”

 

She left before Verex and Risha could respond, flying through the town and station. She jumped on the first train she could, sitting in the farthest corner, away from people. She pulled her knees to her chest. She was having a heart attack. She was sure of it. Her chest hurt too much. Her vision was blurring.

 

As the train pulled away, out of the window, she caught a glimpse of pale, pale hair. Followed by brown eyes staring at her with owl eyes. She knew that face like the back of her hand.

 

Kestrel turned away, slinking down in her seat until she was laying fetal position. She cradled her hands.

 

***

 

She arrived home much later than she had anticipated. Though, she had hopped on the wrong train, ending up halfway to Dacra it seemed. She knew she was exaggerating, but she was spent. She wanted a shower and her bed. Her legs felt like jello, and she was sure if she had to take one more step, she’d collapse right then.

 

Arin was waiting for her when she opened the door. She would’ve smiled or felt some sort of relief if it hadn’t been for the look on his face. His face was hardened with anger, his eyes cut with suspicion and hurt.

 

She tensed. She’d seen that look before. When her father was too drunk to use his hands so he used his words.

 

“Where have you been?” He asked, his voice gruff.

 

It took her a few tries to unstick her tongue from her mouth. To unclench her teeth from how hard she’d clenched her jaw to keep them from chattering while she was on the train. “I was going to pay my father a visit.”

 

Something flashed in Arin’s eyes, but he’d blinked it away as quickly as it had come. His shoulders drooped. “What’s his name?”

 

Kestrel shook her head. She wouldn’t tell him. She didn’t know what Arin would do if he knew.

 

“Tell me,” Arin said roughly. Firmer. Demanding. Pleading.

 

“Trajan.”

 

Arin’s nostrils flared, he spun on his heel, heading for his room. Kestrel followed. “Arin, what’s wrong? What happ—”

 

“Don’t,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Stop lying.”

 

Kestrel’s hands clenched at her sides. “Arin, what are you talking about?”

 

“Tell me, Kestrel, what are you getting out of this?” Arin waved his hand around. “How much money are you getting offered for your stories? Is Trajan in on it, too? Did he put you up to this? Whoring his daughter out?”

 

Her jaw dropped. She could feel the panic attack she’d had slinking back. Arin stepped close to her, so close she had to look up.

 

“I want you out of my house by the morning,” he said, lowly. “Don’t ever think about coming here again.”

 

Kestrel sank to her knees as his door slammed shut. She curled into a ball again. Somehow she knew that this was her fault. Somehow she knew his door wouldn’t open again until she was gone.

 

She didn’t know when she’d started crying, only that she did and didn’t stop until she fell asleep.


	11. 11.

Kestrel shivered.

 

She didn’t know how long she’d been on the floor. A quick glance at the clock about the stove told her it was well past midnight. She rolled to her back, sighing as she removed her weight from her shoulder. Her arm tingled as feeling returned to it slowly.

 

Arin had kicked her out. And then he’d locked himself in his room.

 

Even if he hadn’t, if Kestrel had been there with him, she wouldn’t know what to say to him. What did someone say when they’ve been called a whore?

 

She could just leave like he said. She could leave far, far away, and never return, and try her hardest to forget him. She’d take the money she never touched and start over. But… She couldn’t leave. Not while Arin believed she was selling his secrets. What her father had to do with anything, she didn’t know, but she’d find out.

 

That’s how Kestrel found herself sitting at the grand piano. The black and white keys leering at her. Her fingers twitched. She heard the slam of the cover, felt it after. She heard screaming—hers and her father’s. She heard the cracks and a cacophony of off key notes.

 

Over and over and over and then—

 

Arin’s face. How angry he’d looked when she’d returned home. The pain that had radiated from him when he told her to leave.

 

Kestrel never wanted to see him like that again, even if _she’d_ never see him again.

 

With a deep breath, she put her hands on the keys. It took her a few tries, having not played in nearly a year and needing to learn how to position the stiff fingers that couldn’t properly curl. Mistakes and all, Kestrel played for Arin. The half song she’d dreamed of. The song of her soul.

 

She felt him rather than saw him. She hadn’t heard him come out of his room.

 

He sat on the bench with her, his back facing the keys.

 

“You’re playing,” he said softly.

 

Kestrel finished out the song and turned to him. His eyes were red and swollen. She shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

Arin blinked slowly. He rested his forehead on her shoulder. A chuckle of disbelief escaped him. He shook his head, never lifting it from her body. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“No,” he said. “No, it isn’t. There’s never any excuse for what I said. My anger is my own, and not to be taken out on you. I’m sorry.” One of his hands trailed down her arm until he grasped her hand. He stroked the base of the thumb, where her birthmark would be.

 

“I know,” Kestrel told him. She did know. She’d forgive him just this once because she knew Arin wasn’t like that. He may let his emotions get the better of him sometimes, but he would never hurt her or anyone.

 

They sat like that in silence. Kestrel reaching over with her free hand to run it through his hair as she’d wanted to do since she’d seen him do it. Soft, silky. For a brief moment, she wondered what would happen if she pulled it.

 

After a while, Arin said, “That song…”

 

“I heard it in my dreams.”

 

He nodded against her shoulder as if that made sense. She supposed it did since he was a singer.

 

“I’m still working on it,” she added.

 

“May I help?”

 

Even though he couldn’t see her, Kestrel nodded. “Of course.” _It’s yours_ , she added silently.

 

She felt his lips press against her arm. She felt him squeeze the hand he held. He lifted his head to her then. “Will you play for me again?”

 

She did. While she played, he’d lain his head on her shoulder again and told her about how her father had been his manager. How he’d been accused of embezzlement and incest.How her father and Verex’s may have been the one to pin the blame on him. How he’d given up his career because of it.

 

She felt his tears on her skin.

 

So she played for him. Over and over and over until the sun began to rise and the memories of that night were replaced with this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally part of chapter 10, but i like it better on its own.
> 
> also don't hate me 😭 i know arin would never, ever, ever call kestrel a whore even on accident, no matter the context. i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry.


	12. 12.

Kestrel would’ve preferred an empty house than one where she was actively avoided. She would’ve preferred being on the streets, especially considering it was warming up. And she could leave, she supposed. Technically, Arin had made it clear he didn’t want her there anymore and his avoidance of her only confirmed it.

 

She had hoped differently, though. She didn’t want to leave. Sure, the pap wasn’t following her anymore, but her father was looking out for her. Not that he tried very hard to get her back, but he did tell the people he knew, and they’d snitch on her without a bat of their lashes. But even if he hadn’t been… She wanted to stay.

 

So, she decided enough was enough. She’d left him alone, giving him a few weeks to sulk and pull himself together to realize that she wasn’t going anywhere, and that it would take a lot more than that for her leave.

 

Yet no matter what she did—have a movie ready to play on his laptop, have a game set ready on the table, baking, reading, _anything_ —he’d make excuses. He was tired. He was busy (and she supposed that was true—he’d been coming and going and on the phone more often). He wasn’t in the mood or he was bored of something.

 

It left an ache in her that made her body heavy. That made her feel like… Like she did when Enai was sent away. Or when she was with Jess and knew that they weren’t the same.

 

She wondered how he’d react if she surprised him with wearing his shirt again, but in his bed. Maybe she’d tie it tighter. Or let the shoulders fall off completely and hike the hem up a little more. Maybe she wouldn’t wear it at all. He wouldn’t be able to avoid her then… Would he?

 

Her face flamed as she tossed a Bite and Sting tile back into the pile that hadn’t been picked from. She swiped her chosen ones to the floor, then followed with the others. Suddenly, she was angry, and she didn’t know why. But it felt good.

 

She grabbed one of the decorative pillows from the couch and threw that too. The others followed. She wanted to scream until her throat went hoarse, until her lungs gave out, until her blood vessels popped. She wanted to, but she didn’t.

 

Instead, she marched into the office-library, where Arin was hiding away from her. He jumped in his armchair, nearly dropping the book in his lap. She snatched it away from him.

 

“What is your problem?” She demanded.

 

He averted his eyes from her, choosing to focus his attention on a stray three on his shirt. “What do you mean?”

 

She really wanted to scream then. “ _What do you mean?_ ” she mocked. “You’re leaving me alone!”

 

She flinched at her words, dropping the book to the floor. Tears sprang to her eyes. She set her jaw, blinking rapidly. Her hands curled at her sides. She turned her eyes to the floor. “You’re… leaving me alone,” she said again, softer, almost a whisper. “Just like…”

 

She was lonely. That’s what it was. She missed him and she was lonely. She had always been lonely for as long as she could remember. Arin had been the first person she’d felt like she could breathe around. The first person she felt like she could turn to since Enai had left. He was the first person she felt like understood her. But now, he was pulling away.

 

And it was her fault for having the father she had.

 

“Little Fists,” Arin sighed. From the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for her, but then he dropped his arm. “I never meant to make you feel lonely.”

 

“No,” she said, hoarsely. “You just don’t want me here.”It wouldn’t be the first time she wasn’t wanted. She was sure it wouldn’t be the last, either. She wondered if he could hear her stupid, hopeful heart breaking. Or what was left of it.

 

He scoffed. “Is that… Is that what you think? That I don’t want you here?”

 

Her gaze flitted to him. His jaw was slack in horror. “You told me to leave. You said you didn’t want to see me ever again and then you started avoiding me.” Her nails dug into her palms.

 

Arin was on his feet, standing just inches away from her. “I didn’t mean that, Kestrel. You know that.”

 

She knew that. She knew that, but she felt like she didn’t.

 

This time, when Arin reached for her, she flew into his arms, wrapping her arms around his waist. He hesitated for a moment before returning her embrace.

 

“But you’re avoiding me,” she mumbled against his chest.

 

Arin sighed again, stepping away slightly. He placed his hands on her shoulders, gave them a squeeze before returning his arms to his sides. “Kestrel, I told you to leave. I thought the worst of you. Even if it was for one second, I doubted your abuse.”

 

His gray eyes were flooded with regret and shame. His body tensed. He was waiting for her to do something. But whatever it was, he hadn’t been expecting her to say, “I’ve forgiven you for that.”

 

The shock on his face confused her. Hadn’t her song for him been enough for him to know that she did?

 

He frowned. “But I hurt you.”

 

She shifted. She bit the inside of her cheek. She thought about lying, but what good would that do? He must’ve heard her crying. He’d know she was lying.

 

“Yes,” she admitted. “You did.” But only because she was going to lose him as she had lost everything else before.

 

Arin sat back down in his armchair. He raked a hand through his hair. “Then why forgive me?”

 

“That wasn’t you.”

 

“That’s not an excuse.”

 

She shuffled over to him, wedging herself between his legs. His eyes widened like a frightened rabbit. She reached up to trace one side of his jaw.

 

Why did she forgive him?

 

Kestrel had had worse thrown at her—figuratively and literally. And though she’d been afraid for one moment that Arin would do as her father had, he hadn’t. He’d walked away. He’d cooled off. _He’d apologized_. He’d apologized and took responsibility for what he did. He was so ashamed of what he’d done, he’d barely looked at her during the last few weeks. She pressed her palm to his cheek and held it there as Enai would do to her when she was a child. Arin sucked in a breath.

 

“You’re not him,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

 

It was a reminder that Arin _could have_ been like her father, but he wasn’t. That many other people could be like him or not like him and that she didn’t have to live her life in fear because of one person.

 

Arin softened, breathing a sigh of relief. Her heart slammed into her chest almost immediately at the warmth of it against her skin, sending goosebumps up her spine. He made to turn his head into her hand, but she pulled away from him entirely, making her way to the door.

 

She stepped away from him. “I’ve forgiven you,” she said, raising a hand when he tried to protest. “ _I’ve forgiven you._ So stop punishing yourself.”

 

He eyed her for a moment, warily as if she would change her mind. He dipped his head in a nod. He licked his lips, pulling his lower one into his mouth. Kestrel tracked the movement with hawk eyes, her throat suddenly dry. She spun on her heel.

 

“Will you forgive _him_?” Arin asked, halting her in her tracks.

 

Kestrel thought about it long and hard. At last, she said, “I don’t know.”

 

Then she left the room to clean up her mess.

 

***

 

Arin nearly slammed his door shut. He had to seriously consider moving if people got into the building so easily, especially so early in the morning. And by people, he meant Roshar who strode past him nonchalantly as if the place was his. Sarsine at least had clearance.

 

 

“I feel like I’m going to regret asking, but how in the world did you get into the building, Roshar?”

 

Roshar chucked off his shoes, his jacket following soon after, which he chucked at Arin to put away. Then he made himself comfortable on a stool at the island in the kitchen. He crossed his legs, resting his back against the counter and his elbows on top of it. “Mind who you’re speaking to, Arin,” he said. “I’ve told you before I’m the greatest person you’ll ever meet.”

 

Arin glowered at him as he shoved the jacket into the closet. “That still doesn’t explain how you got past security.”

 

Roshar sighed. He clucked his tongue with a shake of his head as his eyes roamed about his condo. “Arin, Arin, Arin, have you learned nothing about me? After all this time? I’m me. That’s answer enough.”

 

He could imagine _being Roshar_ was also the answer to how he’d gotten Arin’s address. Truly, it shouldn’t have surprised him so much. Not when Arin had had that power nearly a year ago. He’d never used it—he’d never really needed to unless it was dire (like getting a dress Anireh really wanted or the vacation his parents never got to go on), but he had it.

 

Arin made himself some coffee, offering a cup to Roshar who refused, mentioning he didn’t want his teeth to yellow. He wasn’t a big coffee drinker, but with Roshar appearing at his house, he needed something extra strong to get him through the morning.

 

“If I asked why you’re here so early, would I get an answer?”

 

Roshar spun in his seat, grinning. “I knew you missed me, so I figured I’d put you out of your misery.”

 

Arin took a long gulp of his coffee before he said, “The only misery I feel is from you ruining my plans to sleep in.” It had been a long night for Arin. He’d tossed and turned, thinking about his chat with Kestrel in the office-library.

 

He hated that he had reminded her of her father. That even for a moment, she thought she couldn’t trust him. He’d deserved it, sure, but it still pained him to know it. He had to thank every god he could that Kestrel hadn’t listened to him. Now if only he could find a way to make her stay… Indefinitely.

 

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Kestrel had emerged from her room, rubbing her sleepy eyes with a yawn, now yet noticing Roshar. She was wearing another one of his shirts—gods, slow his racing heart and keep his blood above his waist—and her hair was sticking out in all directions. It didn’t seem like she’d gotten much sleep either.

 

Roshar didn’t miss Arin’s rapt attention over his shoulder, so he swiveled in his seat.

 

She walked closer and closer to the kitchen, her hands still at her eyes before she dropped them. “I smell co-” she noticed Roshar then. Blinked at him. “—ffee.”

 

He stared at Kestrel for a beat before turning to Arin with a raised brow and a growing smirk. With the most instigating tone Arin thought Roshar could muster up he said, “Sleep in, huh?”

 

Kestrel’s cheeks pinked, but she served herself a cup of coffee as if Roshar hadn’t even opened his mouth. As she stood next him, Arin noted that she seemed different. Not necessarily more open, but definitely less reserved. Confident, too.

 

Arin’s face on the other hand flamed. He was sure of it. At his blood was rushing somewhere that wasn’t south. “Roshar,” he hissed.

 

Roshar batted his lashes innocently. “I didn’t say anything, Arin.” He lowered his voice in a stage-whisper. “You should get your mind out of the gutter.”

 

Kestrel sputtered, choking back a giggle.

 

Roshar held his hand out to Kestrel, palm side down as if he meant for her to kiss it. As if he were royalty. In a way, Arin supposed he was, but he still rolled his eyes.

 

“I’m Roshar, as you may know. And what is your name, Little Ghost?”

 

Arin could only assume the nickname was in reference to the color of his shirt she wore. White. It wasn’t see through, though he didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse. He took another long sip of his coffee. _Roshar falling out his seat. Roshar being eaten by his tiger._

 

Kestrel shook his hand normally. With the most stern face Arin had seen on her, she said, “I didn’t until five seconds ago, but I’m Kestrel.”

 

The grin faded from Roshar’s lips, immediately on the defense. Recognition dawning on him. He hadn’t gotten her name right at one point, but he’d know it was something similar. Arin saw Roshar’s grip on Kestrel’s hand slightly tighten. He saw Kestrel’s rip on Roshar’s hand loosen and twist slightly. She pulled her hand from his.

 

“Kestrel, as in Trajan’s missing daughter, Kestrel?”

 

Kestrel frowned, gripping her cup with both hands. “I’m not missing.”

 

Roshar tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “That’s not what he’s saying.”

 

“He’s a liar,” she said with such conviction that Roshar’s face scrunched in a flinch. Her light brown eyes lit with a deep seated anger that Arin had never seen before. She was definitely different.

 

An awkward silence settled over the kitchen. Arin ran a finger along Kestrel’s hip, not missing how her skin pebbled. He pinched the fabric of his shirt between his fingers. She tilted her head up to him.

 

“Is this where all my shirts have been going?” he asked lowly. He could feel Roshar’s eyes ping ponging back and forth between him and Kestrel.

 

She shrugged. “They’re comfortable. You must not have cared for them much if you didn’t notice they were gone until now.”

 

He _had_ noticed more and more of his shirts had gone missing, but he’d just assumed he’d gotten rid of them since they were some of the older ones he’d had. They stared at each other, Arin’s hand now placed at the small of her back, his thumb rubbing circles in her spine. Kestrel gripped her mug tightly. She gulped. Her glazed eyes darted to his lips then back to his face. Her breathing shallowed.

 

Roshar cleared his throat. They’d forgotten he was there. Kestrel jumped away from him, turning her back to them so she could place her mug in the sink. And hide her face if the sight of her reddened ears told Arin anything.

 

Arin was going to kill Roshar. He’d wipe the giant grin that nearly broke his face in two right off.

 

“Do you two need more time to _sleep in_?” Roshar asked, sliding off his seat. “I can come back in,” he lifted his sleeve to check his watch bare wrist, “an hour. That should be enough time for a _nap_.”

 

“Roshar!” Arin rubbed his temples with a deep, deep sigh. “It’s not like that.” He felt Kestrel’s eyes on his back.

 

“Yet,” Roshar said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

 

To avoid from punching him, Arin busied himself with putting his own cup into the sink. His eyes widened at Kestrel with an SOS. Kestrel grinned, and he knew she would be of no help to him. He didn’t know why he thought she would be—she’d abandoned him with Sarsine that one time. The traitor. He mumbled it to her. She chuckled.

 

He turned to Roshar, who still wore the knowing, smug grin on his face. “You never told me why you’re here, Roshar.”

 

“I did, you just didn’t listen as per usual,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. “It truly offends me that the whole world adores my voice. They’d kill to be able to speak with me one on one, and here you are, given the privilege they don’t have. And what do you with it? You ignore everything I say.”

 

“By the whole world, do you mean yourself?”

 

Roshar scoffed. He turned to Kestrel, pointing an accusing finger at Arin. “Do you see how this ingrate treats me? I’ve blessed him, and he throws it in my face.”

 

Kestrel tried very hard not to laugh, but she failed. Arin had seen her laugh countless of times, but never as she had the first time at the diner. The one he’d always wanted to see. It was like the sun had touched down on the earth, scorching everything in sight with its brightness. He’d wanted to see it again, always.

 

“Roshar,” Arin huffed, steering him back. “What brings you here so early?”

 

“We’re trending, dear friend,” Roshar said, pulling out his phone to show Arin the articles and the blown up hashtags. “Our outings have been quite a success.”

 

“I knew you were using me.”

 

“I was using you for you. I’m getting you your audience back.”

 

Arin rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time, shaking his head.

 

“Now,” Roshar continued. “How are you doing on _your_ end?”

 

“What makes you think I’m doing anything?” He was truly curious. Arin didn’t quite know if he wanted to return to the fame he’d once had. He quite enjoyed the quietness he had. And he knew that Kestrel might bolt to avoid any attention placed on her.

 

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. (He’d started penning a song when it became clear he wouldn’t get to sleep at a reasonable time the night before. He was missing part of it, though. He couldn’t figure out what.)

 

At present, Kestrel went around to sit on the couch, but her body remained turned to the kitchen to watch them. She didn’t avert herself from the piano anymore. His heart swelled with pride.

 

“People talk.”

 

Arin shrugged, his eyes on Kestrel as he said, “I’ve talked to my lawyer about suing for defamation, and for an investigation on the fraud Valoria Entertainment tried to pin on me.”

 

Kestrel sucked in her cheeks. She knew he meant that he’d be suing her father, and that he could possibly go to prison.

 

He fixed his gaze on Roshar. “I’ve also hired a private investigator to help.”

 

Roshar nodded. “Good.” He paused, a devilish gleam taking hold of his eyes. “In the meantime, what say you to doing our own investigating?”

 

***

 

Something was nagging at Kestrel since she’d first laid her eyes on Roshar.

 

She watched him and Arin bicker back and forth as she ate the breakfast Arin prepared for her. He’d vastly improved his cooking skills. She wondered if he would’ve done that had she not lived with him. She wondered what would’ve happened to him if they had never met. What would’ve happened to her?

 

She didn’t let herself think of it.

 

She listened to them—well, to Roshar—plot away, trying to find the best method at gaining any kind of evidence against Valoria. Against her father. She wondered if Roshar could be trusted. He seemed like a decent person, sure, but there was something about him that made her on edge. Like maybe he wasn’t all that he cracked up to be—flamboyant. Fun.

 

It was when he plastered on a bored expression on his face as Arin mentioned something to him that she knew what bothered her. She’d seen his face before.

 

“Risha,” she breathed.

 

Roshar’s shoulders went rigid, clearly hearing her. His eyes flickered to her. “What?”

 

“Do you have a sister?”

 

The eyes on her narrowed. “I have two.”

 

“And one of them is named Risha?”

 

Roshar stared at her hard. “Yes,” he gritted out. “Why?”

 

Kestrel shrugged. “I’ve met her before. You look alike…” she trailed off. A lightbulb went off in her head. The longer she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. She’d finally found a way to pay Arin back for all that he’d done for her.

 

Arin and Roshar had been having trouble trying to figure out a way for them to get evidence to direct the investigators in the right direction. The two of them had completely forgotten about her.

 

“Verex—do you know him?”

 

She felt Arin’s gaze on her. Beckoning her to look at him. Questioning. But she kept her eyes on Roshar.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Then I know just the right way to get what you need.”


	13. 13.

Arin hadn’t even hesitated to shut the idea down. Roshar, on the other hand, had agreed instantly. It was two to one—and later, when they’d invited Verex and Risha over, four to one. Arin had invited Sarsine, too. Sarsine said she didn’t particularly care either way, though Kestrel could tell that she agreed with her, too, and didn’t want to say it so that Arin didn’t feel like he was being ganged up on.

 

But Arin had been outnumbered and he knew it.

 

Kestrel was going to sneak into her father’s office to find anything useful. She already knew that he didn’t keep much in his office at the house. He was barely there. She knew, then, that anything incriminating he might have would be at his office. What place was safer than that? And if Trajan and Lycian wanted to shut the thing down, Kestrel had to act quickly. They’d try to get rid of everything.

 

Roshar hadn’t lied when he’d told Arin it was good thing he’d contacted his lawyer and a private investigator. It bought them some time. If the company was being sued and investigated, they couldn’t touch anything without making themselves look guilty.

 

She’d asked Verex to help her get into the building since he was able to come and go as he pleased. Kestrel supposed she could’ve played up being Trajan’s daughter, but aside from him telling everyone he knew that she’d run away, she didn’t know what else he told people about her. And since she had never bothered to visit him at his job—she absolutely never had a reason to—she didn’t know if she would be allowed into the building without Verex.

 

Verex agreed, though hesitantly. She’d have to remind herself to tell Verex the truth, though she suspected Risha had said something. He’d apologized for bringing her father up the last time they’d met.

 

Her friend also came in handy for getting an inkling of Trajan’s schedule. The company was throwing an event ( _one last shindig_ , as Verex had put it), and Trajan wouldn’t be in the office since he had to make an appearance and several of his clients were attending. It was the perfect night to strike.

 

If she found something, she’d take pictures, which they’d hand to the lawyer and investigator for them to obtain it all legally.

 

Her body had tingled with delight as she explained it the group. She was being useful. She had a purpose. _She was helping Arin_ just as he’d helped her.

 

For once, she didn’t feel like nothing.

 

Long after their company had left, Arin had tried to argue with her. He wanted to go to make Trajan believe he was thinking about hiring him on as his manager again.

 

“You’re not thinking clearly, Arin,” Kestrel said to him. “You’ll be in his office, maybe. But he’ll be there. And he won’t leave you there at any point.”

 

“What if this Verex kid is lying? He’s Lycian’s son. Remember? Your father’s best friend? The man who could be in on this, too?”

 

“And I’m Trajan’s daughter. Remember? You thought the same of me once.” She’d paused when Arin winced. She knew how he felt about that, but it was the truth. “He’s my friend, Arin. We can trust him.”

 

Arin had frowned at that. Kestrel couldn’t help but think that Arin was just jealous, and the only reason why he disagreed was because it was _Verex_ who she needed. She hadn’t missed the way he watched her and Verex interact. Or how he tensed whenever Verex made her laugh or brought up something from when they’d play together during events. It had made Verex squirm, though only she and Risha noticed. They’d shared knowing looks with each other.

 

“I want to help you,” she’d told him.

 

He’d wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

Kestrel hadn’t known what to say, so she just hugged him back. The truth was she did know what she would’ve said, but Arin wouldn’t have wanted to hear it.

 

She’d stopped caring if she was going to be hurt as long as Arin was happy.

 

***

 

That was how, a month later, Kestrel found herself sitting in the passenger seat of Verex’s car.

 

Her heart hammered against her chest, nearly drowning out any other sounds. Her stomach bubbled with anxiety. She was certain if Verex drove any faster, she’d ruin his car with her vomit. Her hands trembled. She sat on them so Verex wouldn’t notice.

 

He must’ve noticed, though, because he asked her, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

Kestrel had told him the truth about Trajan, about what he did to her for years. He’d been upset that she hadn’t told him, but then he understood. His own father wasn’t good to him. And Risha’s sister—Roshar’s twin and their oldest sister—Inisha had been the same with Risha and Roshar.

 

He’d almost changed his mind about helping her for fear that Trajan would somehow make an appearance at the office, but she hadn’t let him.

 

“Yes,” she answered. “It’ll be fine.”

 

It had to be fine.

 

***

 

Kestrel had been prepared for a lot of things. Like security telling her she’d have to wait another day to see her father because she’d just missed him—thank gods to Verex being at her side, mentioning that she was _his_ guest. Apparently, being Trajan’s daughter _didn’t_ grant her access as easily as Verex had being Lycian’s son. Especially when her father had implied to security that she was troubled.

 

Or maybe her father had decided to change his mind and stay at his office—thank gods he didn’t. She’d have access then, alright, but what good would it do if he were there?

 

What she hadn’t been prepared for was his office being locked. And really, she should’ve expected it. He kept a safe in his home office. _Where it had only been him and her._ She couldn’t even ask Verex if he knew how to pick locks because he was busy distracting the few employees who’d chosen not to go to the party, and more importantly, security. Even with Verex acting as her buffer, she still wasn’t allowed anywhere private if no one was there.

 

She wondered what exactly her father had told security to make them so suspicious of her. (Even if they had every right to be.)

 

Kestrel spent five minutes watching a tutorial on Arin’s borrowed cell phone (she’d needed something to take pictures of anything she found), pretending to be waiting for Verex. Then she inconspicuously dug through her father’s secretary’s desk for some paper clips before spending another five minutes picking the lock.

 

She checked to make sure no one had seen her. She only hoped whoever was watching the cameras either hadn’t noticed or was out for the night. She slipped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her. She used Arin’s phone as a flashlight.

 

Thief, indeed. Perhaps that really was all Kestrel would ever be.

 

She made her way over to the file cabinets first, silently praying they’d be unlocked. They were. She guessed Trajan figured since the door was locked, the files were safe. She went through them, quickly, mostly looking for Arin’s file if he still had one. It wouldn’t surprise her if Trajan had gotten rid of it after Arin had fired him. Her father moved on before he could even draw his next breath.

 

She tried not to feel dejected when she found files on all his clients, except Arin. She flashed the light on the bookshelves, but they mostly held awards his clients didn’t want to keep for themselves.

 

Kestrel tried the desk next. The first drawer she tried revealed a laptop. She pulled it out, setting it on top of the desk. She’d leave it for last. She was sure it would have a password, and she needed to be careful how many she tried. She didn’t want to lock him out. He’d know someone had been there.

 

She tried the drawers on the left side next. There were only office supplies and a storage of food. The amount of it made her wonder if he even ate at home at all. If he didn’t, why did he even bother having someone cook for them? Especially when he’d fired Enai because Kestrel was old enough to take care of herself.

 

She didn’t let herself dwell on it. She didn’t have the time at the moment. She shut the drawers after making sure nothing was awry. She moved on to the right side drawers. The bottom one wasn’t locked. There wasn’t much in there, either. More files that she browsed through, but Arin’s still wasn’t one of them.

 

She halted, hearing laughter from outside the door. She set the phone on the table, the light snuffed out by the desk. She gave it a minute before she snatched the phone from the desk to flash it at the next drawer, cursing when she found that it was locked. She had to be faster. At least now she knew how to pick a lock.

 

The drawer was full of papers. Reminders of meetings, contracts that had yet to be signed, stuff she didn’t care for. Until she found the file she’d been looking for. There was also a stack of papers beneath it, but she focused on the file.

 

In it were copies of contracts Arin had signed; lists of every place he’d made appearances, which he was the most likely to attend again and which were crap; a history of his studio time and album records. Nothing Kestrel thought was too bad. Perhaps Trajan was in the clear. She didn’t want to know what it meant that she slightly hoped he was. He may have abused her, but… She didn’t want to think he was any worse of a person than that.

 

Still, she took pictures of everything in the file before she moved on to the papers that were hidden beneath it.

 

Her stomach dropped.

 

There were printings of articles on the scandal that had nearly broken Arin. She scanned them, but stopped when tears sprung to her eyes. It pained her to know that Arin had gone through this alone. She wished she’d known him sooner. Though, she didn’t know how much help she would’ve been. She’d had her own demons to deal with. She still did.

 

The question was, why did her father save articles about it? The more she flipped through them, the sicker she felt. Her hands were trembling again. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

 

Alarm bells went off in her head. She hadn’t had them in quite some time. She checked the door, but it stayed shut.

 

 _Faster_.

 

She found more articles, but this time about Arin’s family’s car accident. Why would those be there? She took pictures of them all. She didn’t want to—Arin didn’t need to relive it. But she need proof that they were there. In her father’s desk.

 

She nearly hurled.

 

Carefully, Kestrel placed everything back. She checked the time on Arin’s phone. _She’d been gone too long._ She just needed to check the laptop.

 

Swiftly, she opened it up. Just as she expected, there was a password. She tried the same code as the safe in his home office. It was wrong. She frowned, trying her mother’s birthday, and when that was wrong she tried her father’s. Wrong.

 

She grumbled. She couldn’t keep getting the passcode wrong or it’d lock her and Trajan out. She thought long and hard. He couldn’t possibly have…

 

Kestrel’s hands shook violently now. She was starting to feel the way she felt on the train the one time. She tried to calm herself, taking deep breaths as she carefully typed in her birthday.

 

The laptop unlocked, leaving Kestrel stupefied. _He’d used her birthday as a password._ She didn’t want to think about what that meant. She didn’t want to give herself the hope she’d lost when he’d thrown her out.

 

“Focus,” she muttered to herself as she opened folder after folder. She was just about to give up and leave— _she was taking too much time_ —when she came across an unnamed folder. She hissed when it required a password. She tried her parent’s wedding day. When it was wrong, she tried her mother’s birthday.

 

“ _Yes._ ” She glanced at the time.

 

There were bank statements for accounts based in the Southern Isles that had her mother’s name on it. And another woman’s name that Kestrel assumed was Verex’s mother’s, since her father had separated them into their own folder labeled “L”. She snapped pictures of them, then moved on. She opened a spreadsheet that tracked the amount of money paid to a man named…

 

Kestrel nearly dropped the phone. _Cheat was someone I knew in high school. He would’ve hustled you for everything you own and then some._

 

Her father was keeping track of the money he paid to Cheat, and when he’d have to make his next payments. She didn’t understand why, even as she snapped photos of the document. At least, she didn’t understand until she saw the next few documents.

 

Kestrel had thought that the unknown car in her father’s driveway belonged to a lover, but she’d been wrong. It was Trajan’s car. His _new_ car. He’d had his old car scrapped because it’d been damaged in a collision. He’d paid for it himself.

 

She didn’t like what she was thinking. She hated it. She pulled the articles from the drawer again, skimming through them.

 

 _There was a witness. He said he wasn’t able to get the plates of the car that hit Arin’s family._ Cheat.

 

“No. No. No. No.”

 

Kestrel checked the dates on the articles, and the date of the car accident. She shook her head. She remembered that night. It was the night he’d left bruises on her ears. She remembered the smell of the liquor on his breath, the red in his eyes. She hadn’t noticed it then, but as she thought of it now, she remembered the slight limp he had as he walked away.

 

She took pictures of it all, putting everything back to its original form. She checked to make sure everything was locked. It was then that she noticed the picture on the edge of the desk. She put the light on it. It was a picture of her, when she was younger. She didn’t know how old she was. She didn’t even remember a day like that.

 

She had to get out. She couldn’t breathe. She needed air. She was going to have a panic attack.

 

She cracked the door, making sure no one was around before slipping out.

 

“What were you doing in there?” Someone asked from behind her.

 

She nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun to face the security officer.

 

“I thought it was the restroom,” she said, plastering a smile on her face.

 

The woman squinted at her, but nodded. “It’s down the hall.”

 

“Thank you.” She turned on her heel to walk away, then halted. She faced the security woman again. “Oh, by the way, have you seen Verex? I’m getting a little bored of this place.” She rolled her eyes.

 

“He just went into the lounge.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

As she walked away, Kestrel heard from behind her the security woman mutter that she thought Trajan’s office door had been locked. When she was certain she was out of security’s sight, she bolted.

 

They needed to leave before Kestrel disintegrated.

 

She’d come to find evidence of fraud and embezzlement, and she’d certainly found it. But how was she going to tell Arin that her father had killed his family, too?

 

***

 

Kestrel didn’t know how she managed not to break down in Verex’s car. He’d asked if she was okay, multiple times, but she couldn’t find her voice to tell him that she was fine. Because she wasn’t fine. She was far from fine. She knew that if she opened her mouth, she’d scream. Or cry. Or emit the contents of her stomach.

 

She knew she must’ve looked like shit to him. She certainly felt like it.

 

When it became clear that Kestrel wasn’t going to answer him, Verex stopped asking. She’d apologize later.

 

He dropped her off. She trudged through the building, numbly.

 

Arin was waiting in the living room when she walked through the door. He was on his feet in seconds to greet her.

 

“Did you—Kestrel?”

 

Kestrel took one look at Arin’s face. His eyebrows furrowed. His eyes wide with concern. His lips that were turned down.

 

She burst into tears.

 

Arin’s arms were immediately around her. She pushed her face into his chest, sinking to her knees as she clung to him tightly. Arin followed her. He held her tighter. His hands stroked her back, her hair. “Kestrel, what’s wrong? What happened?”

 

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

 

“Kestrel,” Arin’s voice was cracking. “Kestrel, please. What happened?”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

 

She was sorry for her mother, who’d died because of her. She was sorry for Enai, who’d lost her job because of her. She was sorry for Jess, who she’d likely lost as friend because she didn’t know how to be a good one or care enough to be at the time. She was sorry for Arin’s parents and sister, who’d died because of her father. She was sorry for Arin, who’d lost his family because of her father. Who’d come close to losing his career because of him, too. She was sorry for her father, who didn’t know how to be a decent person. Her father whom she was ashamed of. Her father whom she loved, even knowing what she knew, even after what he’d done to her and everyone else.

 

Mostly, she was sorry for herself. For having the father she had. For knowing that he used her birthday as his password, for having a picture of her in his office, and hoping that maybe he did love her after all.

 

“Kestrel,” Arin cooed in her ear. “Shh. Kestrel, please, calm down.”

 

She tried, she did, but the tears kept flowing.

 

“Shh,” he murmured something in Herrani that she recognized because Enai had called her it when Trajan wasn’t around. _My precious girl_. He kissed her hair, forehead, temples, cheeks. “Please, my Little Fists.” _My precious girl_.

 

She cried harder. She cried and cried and cried until her throat was hoarse, until nose was completely clogged, until her head pounded and the air had been knocked out of her lungs. Until she was limp and half asleep in Arin’s arms. But she forced herself to tell him. She forced herself to show him. Then it was her turn to hold him while _he_ cried. Her turn to stroke his hair, to kiss it. To kiss his forehead, his temples, his cheeks.

 

She held him tight as he cried. She held him tight as she cried with him.

 

***

 

Kestrel woke with a start.

 

She didn’t remember getting to bed. She didn’t remember what happened after she returned home from her snooping. Only that once she and Arin had cried all they could, Arin had lifted her and moved her to the couch, where they held each other in silence.

 

She did know that she’d dreamed of her father. She was in the passenger seat as he sped down a winding street on the wrong side of the road. She didn’t have a seatbelt. Another car rushed down. She flew out of the window.

 

She ended up in the belly of a piano. It seemed silly, but it made her heart race. It kept cracking and cracking and it had a woman’s voice—Enai? Her mother? She didn’t know, she didn’t remember.

 

She didn’t want to go back to sleep, fearing more nightmares, but she didn’t want to just lay there when the possibility of falling back asleep was high. She didn’t want to play the piano. She didn’t want anything. She just… She didn’t want to be alone.

 

Before Kestrel could change her mind, she was out of her bed and out of her room. She stopped at Arin’s door, knocking softly. When there was no answer, she knocked a little louder, cracking the door open.

 

“Arin?”

 

No answer. The lump on the bed barely moved. She would’ve thought he was dead if it weren’t for the soft rise and fall over the covers. She stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. Then she walked over to the edge of the bed. He lay on his stomach, so she poked his back lightly.

 

“Arin?”

 

He groaned. She poked him again.

 

“Arin, I can’t sleep. Can I stay here with you?”

 

Arin made a gurgled sound that Kestrel took to mean yes. She walked over to the unoccupied side, lifting the covers. Arin wiggled over to give her more room and she climbed in, laying on her side as she burritoed herself in his blanket. One of his arms snaked around her waist.

 

She stared at the wall, listening to the sound of his breathing.

 

“I can hear you thinking,” he said, turning to his side facing her. He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her back flush against his chest. Cocooning her.

 

“You can’t hear people think.”

 

The bed vibrated with his silent, sleepy laughter. “Go to sleep,” he murmured, the warmth of his breath tickling her ear. She held her own.

 

“But—”

 

“Go to sleep, Little Fists,” he said again. _My precious girl._ “You’re safe here.” She felt his lips just below her ear as he began humming.

 

As Kestrel lulled to sleep, she couldn’t help but feel it was a familiar melody. One that made her fingers twitch. He’d pause as if he couldn’t quite remember the words or the notes that belonged there, but Kestrel had them mapped out. She’d had them written even before she’d played it for him.

 

It was two different parts of a broken song. One she’d tried to fix, but couldn’t on her own.

 

Kestrel drifted deeper into sleep, fitting the two broken halves of the song together in her dreams.


	14. 14.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's filler, but it's important filler pt 3*

Spring had officially begun, and with it came the news of the century.

 

Lycian, CEO of Valoria Entertainment and its subsidiaries (Jadis Records, Tracian Network, and Val Pictures), and Trajan, coveted manager, company shareholder, and best friend to Lycian had been arrested for fraud and embezzlement. Trajan had it worse, having felony hit and run charges against him as well as bribery.

 

Not even twenty-four hours later, they’d posted bail. Their trials were due for the next month, Trajan’s being separate from Lycian’s since he had the extra charges against him.

 

Kestrel thought she would’ve been happy. Arin was finally getting some kind of justice. On the other hand, her father could end up going to prison. That made her heart sink, even though she knew he deserved to go.

 

She thought Arin would’ve been happy, too. He _should’ve_ been happy. But the three of them sat in silence in Sarsine’s living room, watching the news. Sarsine looked as if she were about to hurtle herself at the TV.

 

Arin’s lawyer had told him that the files they’d recovered from Trajan’s office might not be enough to lock them away. _It’s all circumstantial_ , she’d said. _It could be forged and planted_.

 

Kestrel supposed that was true. She’d gotten into her father’s office easily enough. She’d browsed though the files easily enough. By all accounts, it made sense. Who knew how many enemies her father had? It was clear Arin wasn’t the only one of Trajan’s clients who’d been affected, though he’d definitely been picked on by the two men the most.

 

Arin had the sneaking suspicion that it was because he’d voiced, once, to Trajan that he’d been thinking about leaving Jadis for another record label. He’d also planned on getting a different manager—one who Arin connected with well and didn’t feel like a dog on a leash with. He hadn’t told that to Trajan, but he’d suspected Trajan knew.

 

“They’re going to get away with it,” Sarsine said, breaking the silence. Her eyes were still glued to the TV, seeing but not paying attention to the hosts dissecting the news.“Money talks.”

 

Arin hunched in defeat. He had his palms to his eyes.

 

He’d told her once that he didn’t mind being the one that was perceived in a bad light. He’d take it all if it meant those he loved were safe and happy. It had mirrored her own thoughts not too long ago.But this would damage him.

 

The news was out that Arin had been the one to press charges against them. Sooner or later, Kestrel would be dragged into it, too. Already, footage of her with him had popped up, the media wondering who she was and what she was to him. The pap that had taken her photos had yet to release them, though, but she was sure he would soon. Add that to the fact that she was Trajan’s daughter and living with Arin… She was sure that would be devastating for Arin’s case.

 

If that happened, Arin truly wouldn’t be able to return to his career. She doubted he’d be able to walk outside without being harassed by the media or the people.

 

Not to mention, he’d know for the rest of his life that Trajan had gotten away with the death of his family.

 

She couldn’t allow that, she thought as she watched Arin stare at the screen glumly. She couldn’t see him like that.

 

If the documents weren’t enough to incriminate Lycian and Trajan, Kestrel knew exactly what would be. They needed a confession. Trajan and Lycian would never confide in anyone but each other, but maybe…

 

The _real_ Trajan came out to play around her. The drunk, abusive, bitter and rage filled man that he hid from the world. And that man wasn’t exactly close lipped, even if Kestrel didn’t understand what he talked about. At the time, all that mattered to her was that he spoke of people he hated, only to tell her that even _they_ were better than her.

 

Kestrel reached out to Arin, brushing her fingers down the length of his arm before settling her hand in his. She squeezed it. He squeezed back.

 

“Call the lawyer, Arin.”

 

***

 

“No,” Arin said bluntly, clearly meaning for there to be no room for argument.

 

Kestrel didn’t get the memo, apparently, because she ignored him to ask his lawyer if it was possible.

 

“It” being her wearing a mike while she went to her father’s house to speak to him. Alone. To try to get a confession out of him. To help him. Arin wasn’t about to let her take such a risk for him. Who knew what Trajan would do if he saw her again? Arin didn’t even want to think about how her hand in putting her father in prison might affect Kestrel.

 

She may not have liked talking about him much, she may not have liked to care about him, but Arin knew that she did. He knew every time they watched movies where the families, especially scenes dealing with fathers, were so loving and supporting and she’d blink her tears away.

 

Arin knew that Kestrel loved Trajan. She’d been so stiff when they’d watched the news. Her eyes wide with concern while she watched her father be swarmed by reporters and paps. It nearly broke him to see her give so much emotion to someone who didn’t deserve it.

 

“Kestrel,” Arin paused until she looked at him. “No.”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

His lawyer spoke up, “Arin, listen—”

 

“No,” he said again, this time to his lawyer. She could stay out of this. He turned to Kestrel. “Let’s talk in the room.”

 

Without looking to see if she stood with him and followed, Arin went to their room. Over the last few weeks, Kestrel had steadily moved some of her stuff into the room, making it hers just as much as it was his. It sent a thrill of glee through him, warming him from his head to his toes.

 

He tried not to think about what it meant. She still hadn’t made it clear if she’d stay once all this settled down or if she’d leave like she’d once planned to. If she left, he knew she’d sever their ties. He tried not to think about how much he’d miss her. Even so, they flirted. They teased. But Arin didn’t know if she was using him as a distraction or if she genuinely liked him.

 

He didn’t quite understand his own emotions, either. He knew that looking at her made him breathless sometimes and other times his face threatened to break in two with smiles. He knew that he liked talking to her, hanging out with her, hearing her play the piano. He just liked _her_.

 

So he knew that he’d die if something happened to her. It was exactly why he couldn’t let her see her father alone.

 

The door shut behind him as he walked over to the bed, Arin’s side made and Kestrel’s side unmade. He sat on the edge.

 

“Arin—”

 

“You’re not going.”

 

Kestrel’s hands curled into fists. “You can’t stop me.”

 

“Kestrel,” Arin sighed. He rubbed at his face, ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not going to let you risk yourself for me, Kestrel. Sneaking into his office was one thing, but being in the same room as him again… I _can’t_ let you do that.”

 

She sat beside him. “You need this, Arin. He’s not going to talk to anyone else.”

 

“And you think he’ll confide in _you_?”

 

She was silent, chewing on her cheek. “I have to try.”

 

“No, no you don’t. There’s other ways of getting a confession,” he turned his body to her, “you don’t have to put yourself in danger.”

 

“It’s not just about you, Arin,” she said, turning her eyes to the floor. Her fingers tapped at her knees, and he knew that later she’d play to ease her nerves. “He had that picture of me in his office. He used my birthday as his password. I just—I need to _know_.”

 

She lifted her eyes to him, and Arin understood it, then. Her insistence on meeting with her father had been about more than him. Kestrel needed closure.

 

It was something about her expression, so open, so raw that Arin almost couldn’t bear to look at her (almost—he’d never not want to look at her). It made everything fall into place for him.

 

Arin didn’t just like Kestrel. He loved her.

 

He loved how her hair shone in the sun, and how she freckled under it. He loved that he didn’t have to look at her hand to know the exact placement of her birthmark because he’d had it memorized since she’d tried to steal his wallet. He loved her nervous tics. He loved hearing her breath hitch when he kissed her temples or the back of her neck in goodnight. He loved that she stole his shirts to sleep in. He loved waking up to her beside him every morning.

 

He loved every inch of inside and out, even on her bad days when it was struggle to get her out of bed to eat and shower and live.

 

He took her face in his hands, stoking her cheeks with his thumbs. He rested his head against hers. Her face pinked. _Kiss her kiss her kiss her_. His lips ached to touch hers, but he wouldn’t until her knew what she felt for him. If she felt anything at all.

 

“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said softly.

 

“I know,” she replied. “But think of it this way: if he does put his hands on me, they’ll hear it. They’ll see me afterward. They can use it against him.”

 

Arin pulled away to scowl at her. “Don’t joke about that.”

 

“I’m not. It’s a backup plan,” she said, holding his wrists to keep his hands in place when he went to remove them from her face. Her jaw was set and her chin raised. Determined.

 

Arin’s jaw went slack. She would report her father’s abuse to get him in prison. She’d put herself in the line of fire for the both of them—him to get justice for his family, and her, so she could walk around without the fear of him hanging over her. Even if it sometimes made her physically sick just thinking about it.

 

_Kiss her kiss her kiss her_.

 

“That’s… a very bad backup plan, Little Fists,” he murmured, taking her hand in his. He pulled her closer to him, nearly into his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder. He rested his head on hers.

 

“Sometimes it’s the bad ones that work.”

 

He knew there was no way he’d get her to change her mind.

 

***

 

Kestrel woke to Arin’s slumbering face. Their noses nearly touched. Their hands clasped between them. She watched him until his eyelids fluttered open. He gave her a lazy, sleepy smile, his eyes shutting once more.

 

“Morning,” he drawled. She shuddered at the sound of his raspy voice.

 

“Good morning.”

 

Arin opened his eyes again. He watched her as she watched him. She lifted her free hand to his face, tracing his stubbly jawline, the curve of his cheekbone, his nose, eyelids, forehead. At his lips, he turned his head into her hand to press soft kisses to every line of her palm, the inside of her wrist, up the length of her fingers to their tips. He flipped her hand and kissed her nails, the back of her hands, her knuckles, her freckle. Then he took her other hand, the one clasped in his, and did the same. His eyes never left hers.

 

Kestrel’s body felt warm. Too, too warm. She was seconds away from panting with how breathless she’d become. Everywhere his lips touched, her skin burned. He brought her hands to his cheeks, much like she had done days before. He peppered one of her palms with kisses.

 

“You don’t have to go,” he murmured against her skin.

 

She didn’t know how she found it in herself to speak, but she managed to choke out, “Yes, I do.”

 

Arin pulled her closer to him, throwing a leg over her. He nuzzled his face in the crook of her neck. A finger traced the hem of his shirt at her thigh, grazing her skin lightly. His breath tickled her neck, his lips… did other things to her. She had to remember to breathe. How could she do that when she didn’t remember anything but how his lips pressed against her neck and his finger slipped beneath the shirt to run over the length of her thigh from her hip to her knee?

 

She was pretty sure the strangled gasp that echoed through the room had came from her because she felt Arin’s lips curve against her jaw and heard the smile in his voice when he said, _“My precious girl_ , stay with me.”

 

Stay with him? She was rooted to the bed, where else was she going to go? She had a feeling he meant something different than what she thought, but she couldn’t think when his lips were traveling the length of her neck to her collarbone and all the way up to a particularly sensitive spot by her ear. Her hands found his shirtless chest, running her hands on his torso and arms. Her lips, her lips, she needed him to kiss her lips. His hand had clasped around her knee, moving up, up, up, his fingers just barely grazing her inner thigh working up toward the curve of her cheek.

 

Somewhere outside, a donkey was braying. Or it could’ve been a whale dying.

 

Arin chuckled softly. “Stay here with me. Don’t go.”

 

She wasn’t going anywhere. Confession be—

 

She pushed at Arin’s chest. “You—,” she took a deep breath to steady her pants. She pushed at him again as she tried to curve her body away from him. “You’re trying to distract me.”

 

Arin pulled away, eyeing her with a raised brow. “Is it working?”

 

She was too distracted by the flush of his skin and the hunger in his eyes as they scanned her, lingering on the collar of his shirt, her blanketed curves, then up to her face, no, her lips and stayed there. _Yes_ , she thought. Yes, it was working. Yes, please kiss her.

 

“No,” she huffed, untangling herself from him to stand from the bed. She had to get ready to go get miked up in—she checked the time—twenty minutes. She glared at Arin, who grinned at her, turning onto his back and scooting up to sit. The blanket pooled at his waist, leaving his bare chest on display. Her mouth watered.

 

On purpose, she had to remind herself. All of it was on purpose.

 

“At least take me with you,” he said.

 

“He won’t talk if you’re there.”

 

“I can wait outside.”

 

“Arin,” she said, opening up the closet to grab clothes she could quickly throw on. “The likelihood of you killing him is more than me getting anything out him. You’re not going.”

 

Arin was silent behind her. She knew it was because she was right. Once she settled on her choice, she turned to him. He stared right back at her, tapping his fingers on his abs. She zeroed in on them.

 

He shrugged. “I had to try.”

 

That’s right. It was on purpose. He didn’t truly want her, not the way she did him. It was all to distract her from seeing her father.

 

She thought about how she could’ve been anyone. Arin was a handsome man, and he had a name for himself—he had been a famous singer, and he was on his way to reclaiming what he’d given up. She could see the difference in him—happier than when they’d first met, more open, more… Beautiful. It hurt to look at him.

 

Kestrel could’ve been anyone. He’d probably had his fair share of women before her and was using her because of deprivation. He couldn’t possible want someone who was nothing, a nobody, could he? She was just someone he’d picked off the streets. Charity.

 

And it was fine, wasn’t it? Nothing was really going to come out of it. She couldn’t stay with him forever. She’d only stayed because of the pap, and he was gone. Then it was to help him clear his name, his family’s name, and get justice. And soon that would be over, too.

 

Even though she wanted nothing more than to stay with him (and their friends), where she felt safe and… _happy_ , and not alone. Where she felt like somebody who actually deserved the air she breathed. Ultimately, it was up to Arin.

 

“I’ll be back soon,” she said, heading for the bathroom.

 

She tried not to think about what she’d have to deal with after things settled down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *said no one ever probably pt 3


	15. 15.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there might be many typos. i tried to catch them all, but they're as hard to catch as pokemon are with a regular pokeball.
> 
> 🙂
> 
> (sorry for both the joke and the typos. enjoy💕)

The way Kestrel saw it, Trajan had, essentially, become a prisoner in his own home. (The irony didn’t escape her that at one point _she_ had felt that way.) She could see why he wouldn’t want to leave his house when the front of it was swarming with reporters and paparazzi alike. That didn’t include how he was being constantly being monitored by investigators.

 

She didn’t know if she pitied him or felt like he deserved it. Both, maybe. She wondered what was wrong with her. How could she care so much about someone who hadn’t shown her an ounce of kindness? Of love? Being her father didn’t make him a good person. It didn’t excuse him of anything.

 

But… He couldn’t have alway been that way. And if he truly didn’t care for her, then why have that picture of her? Why use her birthday for his password, when he hadn’t celebrated her birthday since she was… Well, ever?

 

She kept her head down as she rounded the street to get to the back of the house, hoping reporters weren’t stationed there. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to get in. She had to remain as separate as she possibly could from the case. Even if she felt like she was betraying her father, she wouldn’t ruin this for Arin.

 

Thinking of him sent a wave sorrow through her. She regretted not taking him with her (though she was also grateful that she hadn’t—he would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb). She regretted not staying with him, not letting him distract her fully. If he even would have. She doubted that he would. She was nothing. She was nobody. She didn’t deserve someone like him. She had thought the same of Jess, too. Perhaps Kestrel just didn’t deserve anyone.

 

She was a thief. She took and she took and she took. Perhaps it was best that she be alone.

 

Kestrel breathed a sigh of relief when she found the back of the house devoid of the media. It wasn’t a smart move on their part, not when they could surround the place and raise their chances of catching a glimpse of Trajan, but she wouldn’t complain. At least she could slip in and out unseen. And if being a thief had taught her anything, it was how to be invisible and slip through the cracks.

 

She latched onto the vines covering the large wall gate, climbing as quickly as she could to get over it in case someone did think smartly enough to check the back. Once she was over, she trudged over to the back doors that led to the kitchen.

 

Her heart raced. She had half a mind to turn back. She should’ve taken Arin with her, sighting be damned, at least she would’ve felt safer even if he was only waiting outside. Her only solace was that somewhere in range, there were investigators waiting in a van. She had to hope that if they heard something violent happening, they’d charge in.

 

She knew the doors would be locked, but she didn’t have anything to pick them with. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected not being able to go through the front door. And what would she do if he saw her and decided not to let her in? What if he decided to call the cops on her like last time?

 

It was something she had to risk.

 

Kestrel did the only thing she could do and knocked. He didn’t answer, so she knocked again. And again and again.

 

Finally, the doors flew open.

 

“How did you fu—”

 

And there he was. It had been almost a year since she’d last seen him, but he looked much older than she remembered. And his gut was definitely a big larger, too. He looked tired and run down as if he could collapse at any moment.

 

Still, her alarms bells were going off. Every inch of her was telling her to run. Her heart raced at a million miles per hour. She lost track of everything she wanted to say, wanted to ask. She hid her hands behind her back to keep him from noticing her trembling. She wanted to leave, she wanted to leave, she wanted to _leave_. Yet somehow she stayed rooted into to place.

 

She was there for Arin, she had to remind herself. For Arin.

 

“Well,” Trajan said, after seeping his light brown eyes over her with a raised brow. She could tell he was sober because his eyes weren’t red, and he didn’t smell like alcohol, but that was barely any consolation for her. Sober or not, he was still dangerous. “If it isn’t my runaway daughter.”

 

 _Run_.

 

_I’m going to die._

 

From somewhere deep inside her, she managed to find the voice to say, “Hi, Dad.”

 

***

 

Kestrel sat on the edge of her seat, ready to flee in case of anything.

 

But so far, her father hadn’t done or said anything to her. It felt a lot like he’d forgotten she was there at all as he’d fretted about the kitchen, and made a small snack to eat and poured himself a drink. Then he’d simply walked away. She’d followed quietly after she shut the door behind her. They ended up his office. She’d held her breath as she’d entered.

 

It hadn’t changed much since she’d been there. Except that the bookshelves were a mess and so was his desk. And there was a new chair—the one she sat on. She could only imagine it was because he wasn’t allowed at the company and had to do business at home.

 

Her father sat at his desk, shuffling through papers. She was too afraid to speak. But she had to. _She had to._

 

“Dad.”

 

He lifted his eyes up at her with a raised brow once more. His eyes flickered with recollection. Perhaps he had truly forgotten she was there. He set his papers down, leaning back in his chair as he reached for his drink—his alcoholic drink. She would’ve preferred him completely sober—she hoped he’d be less aggressive—but she also understood that he was a smart man. It would take a lot to get him to talk, and in this case she needed him buzzed at the least.

 

Neither of them spoke. She had more time to assess him as he had more time to asses her. His hair was thinning and greying. He had more wrinkle than he’d had when she’d last seen him. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed permanently rooted there.

 

She felt her skin crawling to leave. She fought her hardest not to curls her hands into fists.

 

She had to think of it like the games of Bite and Sting she played against Arin. She was playing for truths and her father was playing for… Well, his own demise, she supposed. She could do it. She could do it. She’d made it this far.

 

“Well?” He said, managing to draw the one syllable word into two, three. Or maybe that was just her brain not functioning properly because all she was thinking about was _run run run run run_ and _I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die_ and _I wish Arin was here_.

 

She took a deep, steadying breath, never breaking her father’s gaze. A game of Bite and Sting. She could pretend she was playing against Arin. Bit by bit, her father’s features melted away. His eyes turned grey. The wrinkles faded into smooth, tan skin. His hair turned to dark unruly locks.

 

Kestrel could feel her body relaxing. Not too much—she still sat on the edge of her seat in case. But she could think. She could breathe.

 

“I came to check on you,” she said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She _was_ worried about him. Until she saw him.

 

Trajan (Fake Arin) gave a mirthless laugh ( _wrong, so wrong)_ , taking a sip of his drink. “You’re the one who ran away.”

 

She blinked. “You—You kicked me out.”

 

“Did I?”

 

The image of Arin broke and her father returned. She sucked in her cheeks. She couldn’t keep picturing him as Arin. He’d ruin him. Just like he ruined her. Arin was the one good thing she wouldn’t let him touch. Not again.

 

So if she couldn’t see him as Arin, then she couldn’t be there as Kestrel. At least not the one that was afraid of him. Of everyone. Of…

 

She was the daughter of a ruthless man. There had to be some part of her that was ruthless, too, didn’t she? Wasn’t that how it worked?

 

Kestrel took another deep breath, leaning back against the chair. She crossed her legs. “Fine,” she said coolly. Almost without a care in the world. “I’m here for my things. My birth certificate.”

 

“You didn’t think to take that with you the first time?” He twirled his finger along the rim of the glass.

 

“I didn’t have a choice what I did.”

 

Trajan was silent, staring at her. She wondered what her father was thinking while he watched her. Did he want to hit her? He didn’t look angry. Did he know about the mike under her shirt? She doubted it. She hadn’t made it obvious (she thought). And she probably would’ve been dead. Had he missed her? Was he relieved she was, relatively speaking, alright?

 

 _Run run run run_.

 

No. Not this time.

 

“I heard you were looking for me,” she told him.

 

His finger continued its dance around the glass. The cup was almost empty. She hoped he refilled it. She hoped he didn’t. Finally, he nodded and said, almost bored, “I heard you were shacking up with that nimrod. Did he finally get bored of you?”

 

So he’d known where she’d been the entire time. And hadn’t cared. Maybe she and Arin had it wrong. Maybe the guy they thought was a pap was working for her father instead. He had stopped once she’d started living with Arin.

 

Why? Was it for him to revel in the fact that she was homeless? That she had truly become the nothing, the nobody, he’d always said she was?

 

Kestrel didn’t ask these things, even though she wanted to. She had a segue into talking about Arin, and she’d use it. One day, she’d have time to ask him things. She would make sure of it.

 

“It’s not like that,” she responded, harsher than she’d meant to. She hated thinking that her father thought of her that way. Or that he thought Arin would be capable of doing something like that.

 

He grinned wolfishly. She’d caught his bait. _Shit_. “Don’t tell me you love him, Kestrel. I’ve taught you better than that.”

 

What Kestrel felt for Arin was none of her father’s business. Anyway, it didn’t matter what she felt. Arin could tell her to leave any time he wanted. He was simply being a good samaritan. She remembered how her skin tingled where his lips touched and the feel of his hand around her thigh. She remembered how she wanted more, so much more. How she didn’t want it to end. How it felt a little bit like a dream.

 

He face warmed and her father grinned, chugging the remains of his drink.

 

“It’s not like that,” she said again. It couldn’t be like that no matter how much she longed to be wanted. Arin was Arin, and Kestrel was…nobody. “Why don’t you like him?”

 

Trajan reached into one of his drawers and pulled out a bottle of liquor. He poured himself more. “He’s a spoiled prick.”

 

Had they met the same person? Did he even remember who she was talking about? Arin, the man who’d given her—a complete stranger—a place in his home for her safety?

 

“If you think that, then you didn’t really know him. It’s a good thing you’re not his manager anymore.”

 

Her father froze in the midst of bringing his glass to his lip. He glared. _I’m going to die_. “If you think otherwise, it’s because you’re warming his lap every night.” He drank. “Why couldn’t you have done that with Verex instead of being such a prude?”

 

“Verex wasn’t interested in me. And I wasn’t interested in him. He’s…” she trailed off. Oh. “He’s… like a brother. It wouldn’t have worked. And I told you, Arin isn’t like that.”

 

“Arin is a know-it-all. Did he tell you he fired me for no reason?”

 

A lie. He fired him because his family had just died and his whole career was flushing down the toilet, and all Trajan cared about was getting Arin out there. Arin had told her that’s really all Trajan had cared about. He never stopped to consider his client.

 

“No, he told me he fired you because you weren’t giving him the time he needed to cope.”

 

Trajan shrugged, avoiding his gaze from her. He drank some more, finishing in one gulp. Then decided the glass wasn’t enough. He pushed it to the side and drank straight from the bottle. “People die. Life moves on.”

 

She knew he was thinking about her mother. She wondered how they’d been together. If he treated her mother the same way he treated her or if he treated her more lovingly. She wondered how different her life would’ve been if her mother had lived. Would he have loved her then?

 

“It was still inconsiderate.”

 

“No,” he said. His face was reddening in anger. _Run run run run_. “What’s inconsiderate is they should’ve been watching where they were going.”

 

There. He was getting drunk enough to forget to keep quiet. Kestrel feigned ignorance, furrowing her brows and tilting her head to the side. “What are you talking about?”

 

“It’s their fault they’re dead,” he said. The liquor sloshed as he brought it to his lips. He didn’t seem to notice that it spilled on some of his papers. “They shouldn’t have let that kid drive.”

 

“You’re not making any sense.”

 

Trajan tossed some papers to the floor. His eyes narrowing at her. “The sisterfucker’s sister, Kestrel. Keep up. She was speeding. I didn’t see her until she flew out of the window.”

 

Bile rose into her throat, remembering her dream. She swallowed once, twice. She kept her voice small, contained, not wanting to scare him away from the subject. “You— _You_ ran into them?”

 

He shrugged. “I like to see it as them running into me.”

 

She curled her hands into fists. “And you just… left them there?”

 

“Well, they were dead. What else was I supposed to do? People die. Life goes on.” He eyed her head to toe. “Incestuous and all, even _they_ managed to be more accomplished than you are.” He paused. “You should’ve died,” he said. “You should’ve died instead of her. I told her to abort you, but no one fucking listens to me.”

 

Kestrel could feel her heart drop. Her stomach. Her lungs. She could feel her tears springing to her eyes. She blinked them away. She wasn’t here for this. He was becoming volatile. She had to get what she needed and get out.

 

“You know for a fact that they weren’t an incestuous family, Dad,” she said. His gaze sharpened at the word, hating it.

 

“I did, but being so close to them… It was very easy to make it seem like they were.” Drink. “You’ll never be enough for him, Kestrel.”

 

As if she didn’t already know that. She needed to keep him talking. “ _You_ were the one to bring out that rumor?”

 

He rose a brow. His eyes were red now, hooded. “Do you think these fucks would’ve done it themselves? The media is a hive mind. They only grapple onto what you sell them because its what they want to hear, not what they truly care about.”

 

She was going to be sick. She hadn’t wanted to believe her father was the kind of person who could ruin a person’s life, but the longer he spoke, the more disappointed she’d become. How? How could do something like that?

 

“Why?” she asked. “Why do that to him? He did nothing to you.”

 

“He was leaving,” he said smoothly. “Our biggest moneymaker was leaving. He would’ve probably fired me regardless.” Drink. “The company would’ve tanked without him. We hit him before he hit us.”

 

She’d done it. She’d gotten him to confess. She’d done it. The charge she’d felt when she’d explained how she’d sneak into there father’s office was back in full force. She was useful. She was intelligent. Her father’s word didn’t have to hurt her because she knew they weren’t true. Perhaps they’d never been true. Perhaps she’d made them true by believing them.

 

“And the money? What did you do with it?”

 

Trajan stood, staring at her with a glazed expression. She didn’t know what he was thinking. The bottle was at his lips. “Took it.” He rounded the desk, walking toward her. She was losing her bravado. Her body was locking. _I’m going to die_.

 

She shook her head, slumping further and further into her seat. “Why?”

 

He was standing before her, grasping her face in the palm of his hand. She was reminded of when he’d visited her room for the first time. “To make more.”

 

 _He knew_. He knew what she was doing. He knew about the mike. _He knew he knew he knew_.

 

“You look so much like her,” he said quietly. His harsh breath smothered her. His fingers dug into her jaw. He spilled some liquor on her. “So much.”

 

Kestrel held his gaze. “Then why don’t you love me?”

 

Trajan rocked back, unsteady on his feet. His hand left her face to grip the chair. Gods forbid he drop the bottle. His brows furrowed. “I do,” he slurred. “I do love you. You’re my daughter.”

 

Her chin wobbled.

 

Something inside of her broke. Or maybe it had always been broken, and now it was coming loose. For the longest time, that was all she wanted. To hear that she was loved by the one person who’d never given it to her. The one person she loved most. The one person who didn’t deserve it.

 

_Whoever did this to you doesn’t deserve anything from you._

 

The woman had been right. Her father didn’t deserve Kestrel’s protection. Her love, her tears, her thoughts. He didn’t deserve the word _father_. Trajan didn’t deserve her.

 

And that was it, wasn’t it? That was what she had kept to her heart for so long? The truth that she was always afraid of—that she wasn’t nothing, that she wasn’t nobody. That she was strong and intelligent and beautiful and _loved._ That the love she had given him was for the idea of him. And that Trajan didn’t deserve her.

 

If Trajan believed that he loved her, then she pitied him and her mother, too. That wasn’t love.

 

Love wasn’t stifling. It wasn’t violent. Love wasn’t made up of lies. Love wasn’t lonely, but it wasn’t clingy either. It wasn’t uncomfortable or painful. It wasn’t loving someone they could be, it was loving who they were. Love was… Love was…

 

Arin.

 

She loved Arin. Arin, who hadn’t given a damn that she’d lived on the streets before bringing her in. Arin, who always let her come and go as she pleased, even if she didn’t have anywhere to really go. Arin, who understood what made her uncomfortable even if she’d never told him. Who helped her out of bed on the bad days, when she didn’t even want to open her eyes. And if he couldn’t do that, then he’d join her and tell her stories until she moved. Who _listened_ to her. Who made her feel safe. Who made feel like something and hadn’t looked at her as if she were worthless.

 

Arin, who she hadn’t wanted to love for fear that he’d leave her. Or he’d turn out like her father because of her. But she knew Arin. He wasn’t like that. When Arin cared, he cared with his whole heart. It was what made him so vulnerable to people like her father.

 

Trajan leaned in, kissing her head.

 

One tear. That was the last thing she’d give him. “I’m sorry.”

 

***

 

Kestrel burst into the condo. Arin had been standing by one of the windows, presumably checking for her because he bounded for her, instantly. His eyes scanned her, checking her.

 

Before he could speak, she said, “I want to stay.”

 

Arin stopped in his tracks. His brows furrowed. He didn’t blink. She wasn’t even sure he was breathing. “What?”

 

“I want to stay,” she said again. “I want to stay with you. I want… I want… I mean—” Kestrel licked her lips. She cleared her throat. “You’re my best friend, Arin. I…I _like_ how—who—I am with you. With Sarsine and Roshar.” Arin took small, measured steps toward her. Each step he took caught her breath. “I want to stay with you.” She curled her hands into fists. Uncurled them. “I want… to be with you. I know that I’m not… I’m not…”

 

Arin stood before her then. He cradled her face in his hands, erasing the phantom ones of Trajan’s that had been with her since she’d left his house. “Kestrel.”

 

She was becoming breathless. Her hands were trembling.

 

“Even if you don’t want me, that’s okay. Even if you want me to leave, that’s okay. You’re still my best friend. I just—I want to see you every day. I want to hear you sing all the time, especially when you don’t notice you’re doing it.”

 

“Kestrel.” His thumbs grazed her cheeks.

 

“I want… I want to hear more the stories you tell me. I want to play games with you. I want to play the piano with you— _for_ you.”

 

“Kestrel.”

 

“I don’t want to lose you. You help me be a better version of me. You make me feel safe.”

 

Arin rested his forehead against hers. “Kestrel, there will never be a time where you’d lose me. You’re my best friend. Everything you want, I do, too.” He kissed her wet eyelids. She hadn’t even known she’d been crying. She’d been preparing for the worst. “My Little Fists. _My precious girl_. Didn’t you know? You have every ounce of my soul.”

 

Her heart stopped beating. She stopped breathing. “And your heart?”

 

Arin grinned, brushing his lips against the corner of hers. “You have every bit of that, too.”

 

He pressed his lips to hers, tentatively, pulling away to scan her face. He frowned slightly as if he’d been expecting her to change her mind, to pull away from him. When she didn’t, when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to pull him down to her, he grinned, lifting her so that her legs wrapped around his waist. He pressed his lips to hers, softly again. She ran her hands through his hair, settling one at the base of his neck, giving it a squeeze and his hair a tug.

 

Arin groaned, kissing her harder, hungrier. She knew she had to have died because it couldn’t be real. He couldn’t possibly be real. He moved, and then she was sitting on the island counter. He squeezed her hips, his fingers grazing on her skin beneath her shirt. She gasped, shuddering. Her hands roamed his body, slipping beneath his shirt. Her fingers brushing against the hem of his pants, and it was his turn to shudder.

 

He pulled away to rest his head against hers. He kept his eyes closed. His fingers stroked her skin, lifting high and higher. “Kestrel,” he sighed, hoarsely. “Kestrel, Kestrel.”

 

A prayer. The sound of his heartbeat. _Touch me._ She took his shirt off. She took hers off, too. _Kiss me._ She nipped at his lower lip, pulling it into her mouth. He made a sound. _You’re mine._ She kissed him hard, drawing him closer, wrapping her legs around him tighter.

 

His hands slid up and down her waist, his fingers teasing against the band of her bra. The lower curve of her breast, then up to the upper curve, and back to her waist. She pulled away to rest her head against his. “Arin,” she sighed, hoarsely. “Arin, Arin.”

 

A prayer. The sound of her heartbeat. _Touch me_. He unhooked her bra, but left it on. His hands went around to her back, tracing her spine, rubbing circles in the small of her back. _Kiss me._ He licked at her lower lip, teasing her mouth when she gasped. _Just as I am yours._ He kissed her hard, throwing her bra into next year as he pulled her flush against his chest.

 

Their hips met and they groaned.

 

“I love you, Kestrel.” He kissed her. Her jaw. Her neck. Her collarbone. Down, down to where she wanted him, but he moved up before he got there. “I love you,” he breathed into her skin, etching the words into her bones.

 

She drew his lips back to hers, whispering against them, breathing the words into his blood, “I love you, too.”


	16. 16.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's filler but it's important filler pt 4*

Kestrel hadn’t wanted to go with Arin to her father’s trial.

 

He would’ve stayed with her, but he wanted to see Trajan one last time. To let Trajan know about exactly what he’d lost. Maybe to get in a few punches, too. But when he saw him, Arin had no words to say or fists to throws.

 

He’d spent a year believing that his family’s death was his fault because he was so focused on his career, because he wasn’t in the car with them as if it would’ve made a difference. Aside from his own death, and then Kestrel would’ve been alone. He’d spent a year believing that he was hated and that his career was over. That he wasn’t good enough. That he’d never get as good as his first album anyway.

 

He’d spent a year in agony because of one man, who he hadn’t thought was the same one until recently. The man he’d wanted to scream at and tear limb from limb. The man who looked at him with an unreadable expression.

 

Arin felt sorry for him.

 

After Trajan had been sentenced to, essentially, life in prison, he walked over to Arin’s table just as he was standing. He got as close as he could, even with cops trying to pull him back.

 

“Take care of my daughter,” he said, turning to be lead away.

 

He staggered when Arin responded, “That was something you should’ve done, but regardless, I don’t have to be told to do something I’ll do for the rest of my life.”

 

***

 

Once the trial was over, Arin couldn’t get home fast enough. He wanted to take a quick nap before he and Kestrel went out later. But he stumbled when he was greeted by the warm scent of honey. His stomach grumbled. Or maybe it was his heart, slamming against his ribs.

 

He had to have been dreaming. He never thought he’d smell that scent again. He hadn’t really wanted to since his mother died. He hadn’t even wanted them since she died. If they weren’t made by him mother’s hands, he didn’t want them.

 

But the scent was there. It was there… He had to be dreaming.

 

Yet when he saw the empty kitchen, he couldn’t help but be confused. The counters were bare of anything that might give away someone had been baking. He checked the oven, which was still warm from use, but empty. He checked the microwave, which was also empty. He checked the fridge and cabinets, but he didn’t find what he was looking for.

 

Or if there was anything worth looking for, and he briefly wondered if it was his mind playing tricks on him because of what he had planned for later.

 

For a moment, he stood in the kitchen, basking in the scent of imaginary honeyed half-moons. Except they couldn’t be imaginary because the oven had still been warm. His gaze drifted to the drawer that he kept empty. He hadn’t had a need for it in the condo, or ever again really. He shouldn’t have brought that tradition with him, but he needed something to remind him.

 

He dragged his feet over to it. He pulled the drawer open slowly, inch by inch. Inside was a container of honeyed-half moons.

 

Arin stared at the container. He lifted it, shaking it slightly. He opened the top, sniffed the baked goods. Then he stared some more.

 

He rushed to the office-library. Kestrel wasn’t there. He checked her old room, where she kept most of her clothes and often got ready there, but she wasn’t there either. He checked their room, then finally, the bathroom.

 

Kestrel screamed when he burst through the door, covering herself with a towel. She’d been about to get in the shower. She clutched her chest where her heart would be.

 

She glared at him, her eyes sharp enough to kill. “Arin don’t—”

 

He held up the container of half-moons. “You made these.”

 

It wasn’t a question, but one of her brows rose and she answered, “Yes.”

 

“And you put them in the empty drawer in the kitchen?”

 

“Yes,” she answered again. She stepped toward him, her brows scrunching now. She wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his chest to look up at him. “Are you okay?”

 

It was a loaded question and she knew it. He’d had to sit through the trial, relive everything he’d once tried to forget. He’d faced the man who nearly destroyed his life, and who hurt Kestrel and he’d had to restrain himself from leaping over the table and slamming Trajan’s head into the ground because of it.

 

She knew he’d come home emotionally spent. She’d baked honeyed half-moons for him. She put them in the drawer— _his_ drawer. The way his mother used to.

 

Arin’s heart swelled. He was sure it would explode. He couldn’t possibly love her anymore than he already did, but he found himself loving her all the more. He thought he’d die. Whatever he did to deserve her, he didn’t know, but he’d get on his knees and thank every god in existence for the rest of his life.

 

“Arin?”

 

“Yes,” he said, leaning close to her face. He kissed her forehead, her nose. He smiled when she lifted her chin to catch his mouth, pouting when he pulled away. He rubbed their noses together. “You are the most beautiful thing on this earth,” he said.

 

He kissed her brows and her eyes. “You are the most beautiful thing in my life,” he said.

 

He kissed cheeks and her jaw. “You are the most beautiful soul I have ever met,” he said.

 

She was becoming impatient with him, twisting her head every way his went to try to touch his mouth to hers. Finally, he granted her wish. He brushed his lips over hers, then he pecked kisses to them. “Thank you, _my precious girl_ , my love. Kestrel.”

 

“Kiss me,” she said. _Translation: I love you_ and _kiss me_. She still had trouble saying what she actually meant, and that was okay with him. He knew her well enough to know what she meant, and he had all the time in the world to wait until she learned.

 

When he didn’t oblige her, she tugged him close to the shower. She let her towel fall. “Take a shower with me,” she said. _Translation: I want to spend time with you_ and _I want you_.

 

He chuckled, kissing her. “I already showered today, Little Fists. Get ready. We’ve got a bit of a day ahead of us.”

 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I told Roshar no parties.”

 

“It’s not a party, I promise.”

 

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer before getting in the shower.

 

***

 

Arin sat in the grass. Kestrel lay beside him.

 

He plucked at the grass and stole some of the flowers from the bouquet he’d bought for his family’s grave, twisting them together to make a tiny corsage to braid into her hair. He did anything he could not to look at the stone before them.

 

Arin hadn’t been to the gravesite in a year. He was surprised to find it clean. And flowers set on the ground at the base of the gravestone. Sarsine was the only one he knew that would visit.

 

He wondered what kind of son that made him. If they would be proud of him or disappointed in him. He imagined a different life, where they had lived. Where he had still met Kestrel. Where they had met her. Where Kestrel had her mother and father that loved her, and la career as a pianist. He’d visit her show and wait for her backstage to introduce himself.

 

His gaze shifted from Kestrel’s hair to the grave, his fingers twisting the remaining strands into a braid.

 

 _I’m sorry_ , he said to them. _I did it_ , he said to them. _I miss you so much_.

 

As if reading his thoughts, Kestrel asked, “Do you think they would’ve liked me?”

 

He rubbed one of the braids he’d made in her hair lightly, giving it a small tug. “They would’ve loved you.”

 

“Even Anireh?” She teased.

 

“Especially Anireh,” he said She huffed as he lay on top of her, wiggling as she tried to turn onto her back so she could face him. He brushed her hair from her neck to press a kiss to the back of it. “I have something for you.”

 

“Arin, we’re in public.”

 

He scoffed, “As if that’s ever stopped you.” He sat up, scooting away to give her space to sit up, too. He lifted the back of his shirt to pull out a large manila envelope. He handed it to her.

 

She eyed it skeptically. “What’s this?”

 

“An envelope.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “What’s inside it?”

 

He plucked at the grass again. “Envelopes have these things called flaps for you to open them to see their contents. Maybe you should try that.”

 

She threw a pebble at him. Then she opened the envelope. Her eyes widened as she pulled out the photos of her that the paparazzi had taken long ago. “How… How did you get these?”

 

“By pretending to be a gossip site and offering up the most money for them.”

 

Kestrel stared at him, her eyes misting. “Arin… You didn’t have to do that.”

 

He kissed her. “I’d do anything for you, Kestrel. You know that.” He stood, pulling on her to stand with him. “Come on, it’s your birthday. Let’s not spend it in a graveyard. I have one more surprise for you.”

 

She tucked the photos in the envelope. “Seriously, Arin. No parties.”

 

He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Do you trust me or not?”

 

“Always.”

 

He tugged on her hand, lifting it to his mouth. “Then come on.”

 

***

 

“Arin, where are we going?” Kestrel asked for the umpteenth time.

 

He knew she was trying to figure out if he was lying about the party. And he both was and wasn’t. Roshar really was throwing a party for her. Well… mostly her birthday was just an excuse for him to throw a party in the first place. But Arin had no plans on taking her to it since it wasn’t what she wanted. He’d told Roshar so, and he hadn’t minded in the least.

 

Arin turned onto a smaller street with modest homes.

 

“Arin.”

 

He parked the car in front of a brown brick house, one side covered with vines. It had a white porch with a swing and stairs leading to the white door. Kestrel studied it before turning to him.

 

“Arin, please tell me you didn’t buy me a house.”

 

He smiled as he took off his seat belt, opening his door to step out of the car. “I didn’t buy you a house.” He walked over to her side, opening the door for her.

 

She didn’t move, scowling at him. “I said no parties,” she grumbled for the thousandth time that day. He leaned in to remove her seatbelt and pull her from the car.

 

“It’s not a party, Kestrel. I thought you trusted me.”

 

She shoved at him, slamming the door. “Maybe not about this.”

 

“Would it be so bad?” He asked, leaning against the car. “To have a party? You told me you’ve never really celebrated your birthday before.” And that she’d spent her last birthday in an abandoned dumpster with broken, painful fingers.

 

Kestrel shrugged. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

 

He could understand why. It was her birthday, and she may have been in a better place to celebrate it, but her father had been sent to prison on it. He knew she was blaming herself.

 

“One day then,” he said, pulling her hands to his mouth to pepper kisses all over them.

 

“Then if we’re not here for a party, then what are we—”

 

Her gaze had trailed back toward the house. Her breath caught. He didn’t have to look to see what she’d see. He turned, holding her hand as he lead her toward the house. The closer they got, the harder she squeezed his hand.

 

“Arin.” Her voice cracked. Her hand trembled in his. “Arin.”

 

Enai stood on the porch, waiting for them with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face.

 

“Arin,” Kestrel wheezed.

 

“The investigator wasn’t only working on my case.”

 

A choked sob escaped Kestrel’s mouth as she flew toward Enai, flinging herself at the old woman. She clung to her tightly, sobbing into the woman’s shoulder. Enai was murmuring something to her, but Arin couldn’t hear. He’d decided to stand away from them, to give them some time alone.

 

Enai patted Kestrel’s golden head, soothing the girl until she was calm. She nodded toward Arin. Kestrel grinned, wiping her tears away as she turned to him to wave him over. He couldn’t help but mirror her smile. She wrapped her arms around his neck when he reached the base of the steps.

 

“Thank you, Arin.”

 

“Happy birthday, Little Fists.”

 

“Enai wants to meet you.”

 

***

 

“I have one more surprise for you, Kestrel,” Arin said when they’d finally arrived home.

 

Kestrel was glowing, floating to the couch to flop onto it. He hadn’t seen her smile so much in the year that he’d known her. It was all he wanted to see on her face for the rest of his life. “Arin, please, you’ve done enough. What more could you give me?”

 

He followed her, leaning down to kiss her head. “Everything, Kestrel, everything.”

 

He went to the office-library to grab his laptop from the desk before heading back to the living room. He sat beside Kestrel, who snuggled against him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before resting her head on it. He pulled up the web browser, clicking on an open tab.

 

Music blasted through the laptop’s speakers.

 

Kestrel lifted her head. “Is that…?”

 

It was exactly what she was thinking it was. It was the song she’d played for him and the song he’d written lyrics to in between the gaps she hadn’t worked out yet. He’d uploaded it onto the internet just last night and it already hit three million views. She grinned.

 

“You figured it out,” she said, climbing into his lap.

 

He wrapped his arms around her waist. “That I did.” He didn’t know what he figured out, but it seemed to make Kestrel happy and that was all that mattered.

 

She giggled, knowing that he was full of shit. But she kissed him. “I love it. Thank you.” She kissed him again. “We make a great team.”

 

Arin nodded, his lips working at her neck. She shuddered. “We do. I think we should do that all the time.”

 

“Yes,” she said breathlessly when he kissed a spot by her ear, her body practically melting into his. “We—You should do that all the time.”

 

He chuckled, pulling away to give Kestrel some thinking space. “I meant work together, Kestrel. We should write an album together.”

 

Kestrel blinked away the haze. “You would want that?”

 

“I want everything with you, my love.”

 

Kestrel blinked again. Blink, blink, blink. Her fingers traced his face, his neck, settling over his heart. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *said no one ever probably
> 
> also, i fixed the last scene in chapter 15 bc i wasn't happy with it. kestrin deserved better and i hope you enjoy it 💕


	17. epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so you're not confused: the amount of years that pass in each scene is based on how much total time has passed since the end of chapter 16, if that makes sense. 
> 
> this one is one of my favorites, and the very first thing i wrote when i first started writing this fic. i hope you enjoy it 🤗💕

2 Years Later

 

At twenty-one, Kestrel went back to school to graduate high school since she’d missed out the first time. Thankfully, she didn’t have to go through the whole year again. She didn’t think she’d be able to survive that.

 

She’d taken a few classes at the local college, but between writing music with Arin for their second album together, the things they did to promote it, and Kestrel helping Arin run his own label, she truly hadn’t had the time or energy for it, so she dropped out.

 

Arin had told her that it was fine if she wanted to continue with them, he could hire someone else to help or figure it out on his own, but she hadn’t always enjoyed school anyway. Besides, she could always go back and continue her studies. It wasn’t a big deal.

 

***

 

4 Years Later

 

The house, as it turned out, had belonged to Kestrel when she’d turned eighteen. It had been under her mother’s name—Trajan’s nowhere near it—and she had left the house to her daughter. Along with a hefty trust fund.

 

The moment Kestrel had found out (at twenty-three), she’d barged into the house and tore it from the ceiling to the floor, looking for the pictures of her mother. Trajan had stored them in his room, along with other things that were meant for Kestrel, given to her by her mother.

 

She’d taken the music from Trajan’s safe, too.

 

Then she’d sold the house and everything else in it. It wasn’t like she’d needed it anyway. She lived with Arin in his house then. Shortly after their honeymoon, they’d moved in once he’d cleaned it thoroughly and redecorated it according to their liking. She’d wanted to help, but it was something Arin said he had to do alone since he hadn’t been there since his family had died. He hadn’t sold their condo, though. They’d planned on using it as a studio space for the two of them.

 

Kestrel thought it would’ve been difficult to sell the house Trajan had lived in, but apparently it was worth more _because_ he had lived in it. She wondered at people’s minds.

 

She wondered why her mother had left her the house or opened up a trust fund that Trajan didn’t seem to have known about. She wondered if maybe Trajan’s behavior with her had been the same as his with her mother’s. She’d always told herself to ask Enai, but she always chicken out.

 

Maybe it was better that she not know the truth.

 

***

 

6 Years Later

 

“Kestrel,” Arin whispered, smiling sleepily at her. She shuddered at his morning voice.

 

“Husband,” Kestrel responded.

 

His grin widened. He leaned over to kiss her nose. “Wife.”

 

This time she smiled. “Arin.”

 

It had only been six years, but it seemed like a lifetime ago that Kestrel had been used to an empty, lonely home. She’d believed that she’d deserved it.

 

Now, though, as the warm body between her and her husband stirred just before emitting a high pitched cry, she knew that hadn’t been true. Kestrel was immediately forgotten as Arin sat up, pulling their child onto his chest. He hummed softly as he stood with her, rocking her in his arms while he prepared her bottle.

 

“Hush, my love,” he crooned. “We’re here.”

 

At the sound of her father’s voice, Anireh settled down. He cradled her to his chest while she sucked at her bottle, Arin humming her the song he’d written for her. Kestrel turned to her side to watch her husband and her daughter.

 

Arin caught her watching him. He blinked slowly at her, his eyes following the curves of her blanket covered body. “Wife,” he said.

 

“Husband,” she said, reaching for her phone that buzzed. “I do believe that she will be the most spoiled girl on this earth, no thanks to you.”

 

Arin smiled. “I do believe, Wife, that it was you, and has always been you, that brings her to the bed in the middle of the night.”

 

Kestrel stuck her tongue out at him. She liked to have Anireh close. She didn’t want to miss anything. Even if there was nothing to miss yet—Anireh was only six months old. She scanned her text alert. She immediately texted back. “Roshar is asking if it’s his turn to babysit yet.”

 

“Roshar is always asking if it’s his turn yet,” Arin said with a roll of his eyes as he lifted the baby to his shoulder to burp her. “What’s he talking about anyway? We all have the award ceremony later.”

 

“I know, that’s what I’m telling him.”

 

“Wasn’t he the one who told us he _wasn’t_ babysitting? That he hated kids?”

 

Kestrel shrugged as Arin came back to the bed, bringing the baby with him. She reached for her, but Arin slapped her hands away, nestling the sleeping baby on his chest as he sat against the headboard.

 

“I fear I’m losing my husband to my daughter,” she said with a pout, leaning over to press a light kiss to her daughter’s foot.

 

Arin huffed a laugh, reaching for her hand and pulling it to his lips. “My soul is yours, Little Fists.”

 

“And your heart?”

 

He shrugged. “You’ll have to share that with our children.”

 

“Children?”

 

He smirked, eyeing the curve of her shoulder where his shirt had slipped off. His eyes darkened with hunger. “Yes, children.”

 

She chuckled, shaking her head as she snuggled close to him to kiss his cheek. “I guess I don’t mind sharing that much, then.”

 

“So long as you have my soul to yourself?”

 

“So long as I have your soul to myself and you have mine to yourself.”

 

Arin grinned.

 

It wasn’t true. Kestrel hadn’t ever deserved that broken, empty home.

 

She deserved the beautiful daughter she had, who had Arin’s hair and skin. Who had Kestrel’s eyes, nose and chin. Who she loved more than anything. Maybe even more than Arin. She deserved Arin, her husband. The very marrow of her bones. She deserved Sarsine and Roshar and Verex and Risha, who were always at her house or they were always at their house or they were always out with each other.

 

Kestrel deserved the house full of the love she’d once sought and now had; full of the music she’d loved, then hated, then loved again; full of the joy she’d thought she didn’t deserve.

 

She rested her head against Arin’s chest, just above her daughter’s head, breathing in her scent as Arin’s arm snaked around her waist to bring her closer.

 

 _Kestrel, Kestrel, Kestrel_  sang Arin’s heartbeat.

 

 _Arin, Arin, Arin_  her fingers tapped back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would just like to thank everyone for taking time out of your day to read this fic. it's the first one i've ever completed in my life!! i really, really hope you enjoyed reading it 💕💕 thank you thank you thank you xoxo 💕💕


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